


Saviour

by DarkDranzer



Series: Garazeb: Son of Lasan [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Gen, Lasan, Lasat, Other, Post Fall of Lasan, Pre-Star Wars Rebels - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2018-12-17 08:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11847507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkDranzer/pseuds/DarkDranzer
Summary: Born the Child, Raised the Warrior and Lived the Fool. Garazeb Orrelios was barely alive when pulled from the wreckage of his home, he awakens to find everything he knew and loved is gone. Now he has to build his life from the ground up while contending with a regime that wants his kind dead.





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a collaborative story made by fuzzydemolitionsquad and myself (we're on tumblr), it has been our labour of love since last year when we became disappointed with how Zeb was treated in the later half of S2 to S3 as he was our favourite character. We won’t get into detail as to why we felt like this as that would make the story longer than it already is, haha. 
> 
> This story is meant to cover the large gap in his life between the fall of Lasan and when he comes aboard the Ghost. The story is still in progress and it’s going to be split up into separate stories (the first story is labelled Saviour and it will be split into five parts detailing Zeb’s rescue from Lasan) under the same series (Garazeb: Son of Lasan) so please bear with us, we want to give Zeb the story he deserves.
> 
> Kanan and Hera will appear next chapter (currently on the way), so stay tuned!  
> We’d like to thank the following people for their support and beta-reading our story to ensure it’s the best it can be: springfieldbluebird (fan fiction dot net), eyeloch, inquisitorius-sin-bin, clonettroopers and kimbachan
> 
> We hope you enjoy reading it as we have creating it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the twilight of the battle, Zeb is critically wounded and buried under rubble, after he recounts his last moments with one of his brothers he finds a grim discovery

**_Garazeb: Son of Lasan series_ **

_Saviour - Part I: Aftermath_

* * *

 

Even from orbit, you could see the smoke. Sooty clouds drifted across entire continents, kicked up from orbital bombardments and artillery shells. The cacophony of battle had been planet-wide, but now it was fading into silence. The bombs had stopped.

The battle of Lasan had drawn to a close, but it was painfully obvious who the victors were. Death choked the planet, the atmosphere a shroud of ash now only stirred by departing shuttles. As walking artillery platforms lumbered back onto their transports, white masked ghouls marched through the ruined planet, their sensors picking up on feeble signs of life.

Fatally wounded comrades were given a far more merciful death than their defeated foes. Stormtroopers tossed poison gas canisters and small grenades through any holes they could find, any weak gasps of pain snuffed out by a blast of plasma. As flames died down to smoldering cinders, ISB Agents oversaw the troops—picking off lasat or their fauna out of boredom until they received their last orders to leave the planet behind. While some still moved with cold efficiency, many were jovial. After such a fight, they were anticipating medals of valor and a celebration when they got home. Some were already toasting to fallen comrades in arms with drink pilfered from grand homes.

The rubble crunched under their feet as they advanced towards what used to be Lasan’s shining Capital City, Iavrr’o Nobellia, to find any remaining lasat that managed to survive the initial bombardment. Orders from the top were strict—spare no-one. Some troopers were ‘merciful’ enough to end a wounded lasat’s suffering with a simple blast to the head or chest, but the less ‘compassionate’ ones opted for the T-7’s just to hear their dying breaths turn to bestial screams.  

Underneath the rubble of what used to be Lasan’s corner piece of civilisation, the Royal Palace, a lone lasat was barely clinging to life. The crunch of rubble under Imperial boots rang in his ears, while the stench of blood and soot filled his lungs.

Buried underneath rubble and bodies (either crushed by the collapsing palace or disintegrated into ash), darkness surrounded Garazeb Orrelios. The now-former Captain of the High Honour Guard still lived—protected by a large slab of duracrete that used to be a reinforced ceiling.

The lasat’s face was rutted with deep lines of pain. His chest tightened and he coughed hard. A gelatinous cud of clotted blood spattered the pieces of debris covering him, staining it with a patina of gore. His ragged breaths became increasingly labored. He knew he was bleeding internally. It was a dismal self-diagnosis, but the truth was that blood and other fluids were filling his organs, making it more and more difficult to breathe. He faded in and out of consciousness.

Even when he wasn’t awake, the lasat’s body was one giant, singular rhythm of agony. Everything hurt, from the burns that covered nearly half of his body to the fracture of his right eye to his crushed torso. Heavy debris pinned one of his arms behind his head, hyperextending it. Another stabbing pain radiated from his shoulder and side. Garazeb Orrelios saw a pocket of room by his head and tried to inch himself up into it, but moving only made the pain worse.

_“Argh!”_

He slumped back down, hissing sharply at the feel of bone on stone. Turning his attention to his mangled shoulder, his keen eyes pierced the dark and managed to pick out the rough shape of a pylon fragment embedded in the joint. A crust of blackened blood surrounded the wound.

Zeb flinched as he heard another rumble; the sound of rocks and debris shifting. Squeezing his eyes shut instinctively, he felt dust and pebbles pepper his face. The lasat began to cough some more, bringing up blood. He sneezed when the dust settled, and yet more blood sprayed from his nose in a fine mist. The pain was near unbearable, and for a moment Zeb thought he would pass out for good. 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/153886044@N07/36531391071/in/dateposted-public/)

The lasat felt his heart pounding fiercely under shattered ribs. Breath came in short, ragged pants and he heard the blood pulsing through the sensitive veins that lined his inner ears. Cautiously he opened an eye, his vision finally fully adjusted to the murky darkness. He  saw–and felt–the large slab of stone that was protecting him from the other debris.  It was now pressing down on him. Hard.

There was a long, jagged fissure running the length of the slab.  Powdered marble slowly sifted through the crack, falling into Zeb’s many wounds. He wondered, morbidly, how long it would take for the slab to break and completely crush his body. At least it would be quick. Drowning in a surge of dust and Ashla-knew-what else would be much worse.

The murky haze in his mind matched his dismal surroundings. A phantom of sound resonated in his skull and his ears pricked up. From beneath this seemingly bottomless heap of rubble he heard a familiar voice. It was muffled by the slab which was practically pinning him to the ground. The booming voice–accented like his own–roared in defiance at its owner’s impending fate. That same booming voice masked its owner’s fear well. The lasat might have been terrified, but he wasn’t going to give his killer the satisfaction of knowing how afraid he was.

_“Rr’ahkopa sekah Bo’gan!!!” (I’ll see you in the Bogan’s lair!)_

“Ruh...Ro...Rostam…?” Zeb croaked.

“Notiah. . . Rrostam. . . favorr.” _(Don’t...Rostam..please…)_ Zeb’s eyes filled with tears. He’d lost too many family members and friends and brave soldiers in this massacre.

He wouldn’t allow his younger brother to expire under a cairn of palatial crumblings. He had to protect his younger siblings! His father told him as much, many years ago when he was still a child, but he already failed that duty, didn’t he? His sisters and god-brother died in the bloodbath. Why wasn’t he among them? It was only cruel fate which allowed him to survive. Spared him, so he could be forever reminded of the lives he should have saved. He remembered his father’s words… _“It is the eldest cub who protects the young…”_

“Notiah sil sufa valurr! Swi’aht!” _(Don’t be a hero! Retreat!)_

His keen hearing picked up the sound of raucous laughter cut short by laserfire.

“Alm. . . ALM!” _(No...NO!!!)_

“Alm!! Notiah ak’la!! Res’pirra Ashla!!! Hi’sempaka ka’lari!! Noitah ti tau’ra kri!!!” _(No!! Don’t take him!! By the Ashla’s breath!! You’ve taken so much from us!! Don’t take my brother too!!!)_ Zeb’s breath hitched in his throat as he choked back broken sobs.

His heart skipped a beat. He heard two bodies fall.

“Rrostam. . . no’ah pres muarrt, favorr. . . Hihghee foll _—_ ” _(Rostam...don’t be dead, please...I swear, if you’re—)_

The lasat’s thoughts were cut short when the ground suddenly trembled and heaved, like a hungry krayt dragon bursting from its hibernation den. It was much louder, the magnitude far stronger than before. Panic gripped him. Was this it? Was he going to die?

He blinked several times. The dust had gotten into his eyes again. Twisting his head to the side, a bank of sharp–edged gravel pumiced the painful burns on his face. He felt his heart seize in his flooding chest. The skeletal remains of a lasat hand dangled in front of his face. On the knuckles was a scuffed, broken, yet miraculously intact olive-coloured bracer.

Zeb’s very soul froze. He knew that bracer. He had seen it—and its matching mate—earlier in the day when he was speaking to his brother Rostam. The burly lasat’s joviality had helped ease the tension of impending warfare. It also helped ease his nerves and conscience somewhat. After the tense confrontation  he had with his sister over battle plans he needed something to cheer him up. Zeb squeezed his eyes shut as he remembered his last interaction with Rostam only a mere hours ago. 

_“Check ‘em out Gary. Just bought these babies!” Rostam proudly raised a purple speckled fist in his brother’s face “They’re supposed to be the best bracers in all of Lasan. They’ll even deflect blasterfire!”_

_Zeb squinted one eye and gave the half-gauntlets a once-over. “Oh sure. Tell me another one. Where’d you get those? The Home Shopping Holonet?”_

_“Ha ha, very funny. Don’t be jealous, Gazz. It’s unbecoming of a Captain.”_

_The older, striped lasat threw his head back and let out a hearty chuckle._  

_“Why do you even need such big bracers? You’re just gonna shoot those bucketheads!”_

_“I might shoot the blasters out of their hands. Then let my fists do the talking. To their faces.” The younger lasat punched his fist into his open palm with a hearty chuckle of his own._

_“Sounds fun, I’ll admit. Not very practical, but fun.” Zeb conceded with a nod._

_Rostam scoffed. “Oh dear brother of mine, didn’t you tell me that it’s best to cover my bases? What if I lose my bo-rifle?”_  

_“Yeah, y’got a point there…hold on.” Zeb’s brows knitted in mock concern as he came to an abrupt stop._

_“What?”_  

_Not watching where he was going, Rostam bumped into the shorter lasat, who didn’t even notice the bump. Zeb growled playfully. “I gotta check the temperature in the Bogan’s lair. You havin’ a good idea means it must’ve frozen over!’_

_Rostam rolled his eyes. “Haha, you’re so funny...look mate, I’ll take all the help I can get! Besides, these babies aren’t just good for coverage and face rearranging. They’re great for support. And seeing I’ll be holding ol’ Gran’s heavy bo-rifle for hours. . .”_

_“That’s true.” Zeb conceded. “That rifle is the best thing to come out of Lasan-Malamut for a long time. Gramps knew what he was doing when he made it.” He clapped the younger lasat’s shoulder, a hint of seriousness flashed in his eyes. “Well Tum-Tum...little brother, I’ve got to get to the Command Center for briefing.”_  

_Zeb stifled a chuckle as he saw his brother’s reaction to his most hated nickname, one given by their parents when he was a baby. It was always funny to see him scrunch his face up like a discarded bag._

_“Damn it Gary, when’re you gonna stop calling me that?”_

_“Dunno, maybe the same time you stop callin’ me Gary, or Gazza?” Zeb flashed him a toothy grin._

_Rostam shook his head and made an amused sound. “Never, I’m guessing?”_ _  
_

_“Got that right…”_  
  
Rostam lifted his face to the sky, where the angular grey bulk of an Imperial warship levitated in the atmosphere, playing a game of dare with an old Lasani battle cruiser.

_“Well...speaking of ‘briefings’ I need to report to my unit.”_

_The taller lasat’s face stiffened with disgust and unease. The Imperial warship, a blemish on the warm, purple skies of Lasan, ruined what was otherwise a perfect, balmy day. Seeing the grey monstrosity reminded him what was really at stake for this battle, their home’s—and everyone else’s future. He rubbed his neck and snorted. Zeb’s lips curved into a frown, his brother was nervous. Not that he could really blame him._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/153886044@N07/36273877100/in/dateposted-public/)

_“Guess we uh. . . won’t be seeing each other again until after the fight.” Zeb said. “We’ll have to go to the old Twin Sticks for some drinks! Keep our drinking arms in good shape!”_

_He tagged his younger brother’s  arm with an affectionate punch. Rostam jolted and tried to give his older brother a noogie on top of his hairless head, but Zeb was swifter and effortlessly dodged under his arm._

_“Karabast, the Twin Sticks sounds good right about now!” Rostam said with a devilish laugh. “Remember, when I beat you at our little ‘ sniping game’, drinks are going on your tab!”_

_Zeb grinned “Right, y’sure you’re gonna be able to keep up with me?”_

_“Absolutely! Older or not, ain’t no way I’m gonna lose to you, bro. Remember, I’ve got Gran’s rifle.” Rostam patted the weapon affectionately._

_“Ha! Hate to break it to ya, spurt, but I’ve put in way more hours of practice than you!” Zeb said, ruffling his brother’s fuzzy head. Rostam knocked his brother’s arm back and finally managed to land the noogie. His golden eyes glinted with mirth._

_“We’ll see about that, mate! See ya around Gazza!”_

_“Bye, Ros.’”_

_He wasn’t sure if his brother heard him. He watched Rostam trot over to one of his guard friends and play slap hands with him. They shared a good-natured battle roar, then Rostam disappeared into a throng of snipers who were scaling up the stairs for a good vantage point. They were all clad in matching green uniforms, clutching their bo-rifles to their chests. The smile on Zeb’s face faded as he made his own way to the command centre to seek an audience with some of the senior members of the Warrior Council._

Pulled out of his reverie, a shocked Zeb stared at the bleak reality of the bones. He now knew that  the skeletal remains of the arm and hand, dangling inches from his horrified face, were his brother’s.

Another ground-shudder released a deluge of pebbles and cloying dust. Something shifted in the gray-brown murk. It made a grinding sound, raising the hair along his nape. Zeb immediately thought of carrion crizzards, scattering the ribs and vertebra of long-deceased animals with their powerful beaks. He opened his eyes when the dust cleared and recoiled when he saw a fleshless face staring back at him. Where once there were golden eyes, only empty hollows remained. Parted jaws, housing a battery of pearl-white teeth, readied to speak.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/153886044@N07/36531383871/in/dateposted-public/)

_“We’ll have to go to the ol’ Twin Sticks for drinks!”_

Zeb saw the tiny chip in one upper incisor and remembered the time Rostam had fallen out of bed after a night of ‘tying one on.’

The skeleton sagged, and its arms draped around Zeb’s neck. Fear turned to grief as the lasat was forced to endure his dead brother’s cold embrace. Everything that happened on Lasan ceased to matter to him. Zeb lost sensation in his arms and legs. His body followed. He began to drift in and out of consciousness, consoled with the thought that soon he’d join his brother and the rest of his family in the afterlife.

“Rrostam...t...ti’sijor’am...favorr ab’sa _—_ ” _(Rostam...I...I’m so sorry…please forgiv—)_

Zeb couldn’t finish his thoughts. He didn’t deserve Rostam’s forgiveness. Or anyone else’s for that matter. With his carelessness and lack of foresight he had failed to protect his people. Instead, he lead his troops to the slaughter. He deserved this...he deserved to die, alone and uncared for with the proof of his failure staring at him as he took his last breath.

Blood coursed out of his wounds, faster now.  A shank of bone pierced the flesh of his side. He felt his numb body moving through a void in space. Was this what dying was like? Who knew?  Zeb blinked away his tears, feeling the slick saline dripping from his hairy chin onto the rubble-encrusted ground with soft plips.

“Ti’sijor...” _(I’m sorry…)_ He mumbled one last time before everything turned to black.

TBC


	2. Salvage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After another Fulcrum mission Kanan and Hera detour to Lasan to scavenge for items to sell for credits, but in the debris they find something...more

**AN:** Sorry for the long wait there's been some unavoidable real-life issues for all of us, Chapter III's with the beta reader and the draft for Chapter IV is well on its way. Credit to Fuzzydemolitionsquad for her exceptional writing skills and eyeloch's (our beta-reader) keen eye to detail. Pictures/co-writing/story idea by DarkDranzer

 

**_Garazeb: Son of Lasan series_**  

_Saviour – Part II: Salvage_

* * *

From orbit, the world of Ayin-Resh was tranquil. Swathes of green jungle and blue seas crisscrossed the surface, beautiful colours only slightly marred by the odd settlement or mine. Descend through the clouds though and you might get a sense of commotion, at least in one particular private hangar. Its owner was busy demanding a planetary lockdown from the local authorities since she’d just learnt her order from Kuat Systems Engineering had been stolen from right under her nose.

Many miles away, the thief – Kanan Jarrus by name – exited the fresher wearing a pair of knee length shorts and his favourite holey-but-comfortable tee shirt. Pulling his wet hair back, he fastened it into its usual neat ponytail. He turned to his partner, a green-skinned twi’lek on the other side of the room named Hera Syndulla.

“Boy….I’m starving to death, who’d’ve thought stealing A-Wings would work up an appetite?”

He eyed the minibar and ornate fruit bowl next to Hera, several ripe, tantalising fruits picked from their lush jungles filled the bowl, making Kanan’s mouth water.

“Will they charge us extra if I sneak a meiloorun out?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Hera replied, keeping her attention on the portable radio – hoping for a signal. “And no, we don’t have enough to cover their food tax.”

Kanan scoffed aloud “Figures...charge us just for taking a piece of fruit that you can find anywhere…”

“Sorry love,” Hera chuckled, “but I think we would’ve caused the Koppaya Inn enough trouble by the time Stormtroopers come marching in demanding to know where the A-Wings are.” she idly flicked a few switches, keeping the headset pinned to her ear cone “Speaking of which, we’d better find another place to lie low for a while, preferably _outside_ of Ayin-Resh, at least until the heat’s died down.”

The weary thief threw himself down on the hide–a–bed couch. With a sigh, he stretched his arms up over his head then folded them behind his neck. Reaching over to grab a holopad from the well-worn cushion beside him, he tried to read the room service menu, which happened to be written in no less than three Devaronian dialects.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/153886044@N07/23574177718/in/dateposted-public/)

“Yeah, yeah…” Kanan began flicking through the menu

“Find anything worth getting caught over?” Hera lightly turned a knob

“I’m afraid to order anything from this menu. Maybe Vizago can interpret it for us.”

Hera looked up from her portable radio equipment and her shapely lips stretched into a sly smile.

“You want me to call him? After we conveniently ‘lost track’ of those CR-2 pistols, then did a job for the rebellion instead? He saw us with the ships, Kanan. He knows we stole them. Besides,” she continued, her voice taking a teasing lilt, “there’s nothing on that menu you’d eat anyway. Devaronian food is salty. And usually slimy.”

“Glad you told me.” Kanan replied, teasing back, ”I was thinking of ordering number seven. Gul’rekrek ssar bem.”

“Ah. Fermented rycrit calf brains. That’s actually pretty good. When cooked the twi’lek way I mean.”

Kanan blew out a puff of air and slapped the menu on top of the couch–side table. "We might have enough time to hit the Corellian restaurant down the street? We have to celebrate our victory some way.”

Hera put a hand up against one of her earphones. “Mmm. You go ahead. The encryption breaker is working. I’m getting little streams of coherent basic. Military lingo. Could be the Empire.”

“In that case, the food can wait." he offered her a wolfish smile 

Hera switched to open speaker so Kanan could hear. He got off the couch and pulled up a chair next to her. A few truncated blurbs squawked from the radio speaker.

“ _Mission command . . . . . requesting orders . . . return. . . . . . . access. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . refueling on. . . .”_

“Dammit! Refueling where?” Hera slammed the table with her fist. “We need a new fuel source!”

“Shhh, listen!” Kanan said, tweaking Hera’s ear cone.

_“Base–Delta–Zero, Liberation: Lasan was a success. . . . .No Known Survivors. . . . . . escape pods. . . –stroyed. I’m sending Captain Rhell’s transmission over secure channel. Radio blackout. . . . “_

A chill coursed down Hera’s spine, “Di–did he say _Base–Delta–Zero?”_

“Yeah _.”_ Kanan’s face was grim. He repeated _“No known survivors._ Lasan’s nearby, I’m assuming? _”_

The twi’lek put her head in her hands and stared down at the tabletop _._ "Yes, Chopper has mentioned it a couple times, but I never questioned him about it. If the Empire is actively B-D-Z’ing random inhabited planets, the galaxy as we know it is doomed.”

“Not if we take out their kriffing armada.”

Hera appreciated Kanan’s optimism. After all the things the former Jedi padawan had been through, he still remained optimistic. As positive as Hera was, she retained a certain amount of pessimism. If one didn’t expect things to go right, they were never shocked when they went horribly wrong.

The twi’lek’s lekku twitched when an idea popped into her head.

“They said they’re moving out to refuel, right?”

“Yeah sounded like it.” 

“That gives us first shot for a salvage mission.”

Kanan was shocked. “A _looting_ mission might be more appropriate.”

The alien woman caressed his chin. “We’re not going to be robbing corpses, Kanan. Just looking for scrap or whatever technology we can find. That the Empire didn’t take, that is. Believe me, I don’t feel good about it, but we need credits. Our food–stores are low. Even the stowaway mice are starving. And the Ghost needs a few repairs, remember? I won’t mention the outrageous cost of starship fuel these days.”

“You just mentioned it.”

“Smartass.” Hera smacked his cheek lightly.

The man stroked his beard.

“So how do we find Lasan?”

Hera smirked. “Well, I personally know someone who lived there. He’s short and crotchety and swears in binary.” 

“Chopper? Heh, that little scrap–pile will direct us into a star going supernova!”

“Not if I promise him a hot oil bath after we get paid.”

* * *

The light freighter Ghost blurred into existence over the planet Lasan. Her owner, Captain Hera Syndulla, stared at the lonely gray–brown orb framed in her forward viewport.Turning her head, she gave her human partner a sideways glance. Kanan Jarrus returned her curious expression. 

“Well there it is, just where Chopper said it would be. Nice to know he’s got some honor.” The man cracked the knuckles of his slender brown hands. “Now to get down there and find some scrap.”

He said it as if it were some easy task, like lifting a bantha with a teaspoon...

Hera’s green head–tails twitched. “Hmm . . . That can’t really be Lasan, can it? Doesn’t look like that rock ever had life on it. The entire northern pole is slagged. Scarred. Like land after lava flows over it.”

“Or after superheated turbolasers pass over it.” Kanan added helpfully.

Hera’s eyes narrowed. Her mouth was a straight, mirthless line.

“That’s what I was thinking too. When the Empire’s military sets out to destroy...they certainly do it right, don’t they?”

“Yes, they do.”

The two sat in silence. Hera knew what Kanan was thinking—she was thinking it as well. Attempting a smile, she placed her hand on top of his.

“We’ve got to remember that whatever we salvage, whatever we sell. . . it’ll fund the Rebellion and help people who’ve been affected by the Empire. We can buy food, medicine. Fuel. Maybe some new solar generators for the people of Tarkintown.”

“I’ve been telling myself the same thing all day long. I–I just keep thinking about the lasat. We’re gonna loot their destroyed planet...” Kanan pointed to the lifeless gray–brown sphere in the viewport. “Talk about adding insult to injury.”

“I just hope there’s enough down there to warrant using _my_ fuel.” Hera said, frowning. “I’m starting to think nothing could have survived that bombardment.”

“Maybe the good stuff is locked away in underground vaults?”

“We’ll see soon enough. Preparing for descent.” Hera flipped a set of toggles above her head and eased down the steering yoke.

“Pray to the Force that I can get through that ring of asteroids.”

“Don’t need the Force when you’ve got the best damn pilot in the galaxy with you” Kanan joked, hoping to ease the tension

Hera didn’t pay heed to his joke and with a short, awkward cough Kanan scrutinized the weightless forms tumbling through the gravitational slipstream which flowed around the planet’s equator.

“Uh, Hera, what’s easier to navigate in, asteroids or space junk?”

“What are you tal– Wait a minute. . .” she trailed off. Shoving Kanan from the co-pilot’s chair, the twi’lek’s hands flew over the toggle switches and bottons, increasing the range of her sensors.

Then they both saw a scrapyard swirling and tumbling about in a soup of cosmic dust. Vacuum–crushed escape pods and disembowelled star cruisers spun in lazy orbits, leaving splinters of metal in their wake. Larger transports lay shredded, their hulls flensed like the bodies of leviathans. Few, if any, ships looked Imperial. Stone seemed to litter the debris field too as if attacks from star destroyers had not only obliterated the ancient architecture of Lasan’s major cities but thrown it into orbit. Gazing out, Kanan almost fancied he could see pieces of the marble palace and its hallowed statue–gardens, rocketed up and out of the atmosphere. It made him shudder as they drew closer - it was like he felt the dead in his bones...

“This is odd, Kanan.” Hera said, perusing her holo-projected star chart for the fifth time. “If this _is_ Lasan, why can’t I find it here? There’s not even an unnamed planetoid or moon on this chart.”

“You can’t find it for the same reason Chop can’t find us any info about the lasat species,” Kanan said with a bitter growl. “The Empire has wiped the slate clean regarding Lasan. They know they went too far with this attack. Hmph, I wonder if any of them have enough of a conscience enough to realize how wrong this is.”

C1–10P let out a growl of his own. His service arms flailed and his dome rotated from side to side “WHAAP wah woop ruh ruh . . .”

“What did he say?”

Hera laughed. “He’s frustrated because he can’t provide a data feed and has to rely on his own internal memory.”

“Wop. Wop."

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/153886044@N07/37379281086/in/dateposted-public/)

Easing into the vacated pilot’s chair, Kanan patted the droid’s stout torso. “So Chop...what were the Lasat like?”

“Wheeooh ah mow whaaap. Rup ruh eeoh ug waa. Wook wah wook wahh.”

“That doesn’t sound good. Hera?”

“He says, and I’ll quote, they were furry, smelly and...uglier than humans.”

“Nice.” Kanan deadpanned.

“And stronger than wookies.”

Kanan’s brows knitted. “No wonder the Empire wanted them dead."

* * *

With her usual skill, Hera manoeuvred through the debris—neatly avoiding a collision with the nose of a destroyed transport—and dove through the atmosphere of the ruined planet like a great, gray bird set upon it’s wounded prey. Greasy smoke from long–burning fires licked at the Ghost’s hull and clouds of wind–blown dust made normal navigating a near impossibility. Hera hated having to rely on her ship–board computer to tell her where to go, but this wasn’t a time for one’s pride to get in the way.

Eventually, she set the ship down on the shattered remains of what was once a beautiful mosaic–work court in the hub of a once–bustling capital city. Here, below the whirling dust clouds was an eerie picture of the remains of an advanced civilization. Stone benches and withered trees lay atop piles of marbleized brick and cobalt blue tiles. A few abandoned landspeeders hovered where their owners last parked them.

Colorful pennants on poles snapped in the hot, suffocating breeze and the upper reaches of enormous stone buildings—bombed hollow and pocked by laser fire—lay in the streets, support struts jutting from them like black bones. A cold, prickling sensation raised the fine hairs on the back of Kanan’s neck as he slipped a rebreather mask over his face. As she finished the last few system checks from the co-pilot’s seat, Hera noticed his reaction. He saw the concern in her eyes through the duraplast shield of her own mask and felt a flush of embarrassment as she slipped her hand into his.

“You gonna be okay, love?”

_‘Love?’_ the word caught Kanan off–guard _‘I kind of like it when she calls me that.’_

“Yeah. Sure.” He found himself replying. “Don’t worry about me.”

They descended the ramp and set their booted feet on the ravaged court. Pebbly stone crunched beneath their heels. Kanan’s fingers drummed the grip of his blaster as he scanned the surrounding area, his mouth frozen into a severe frown. Inside his mind, a tiny candle–flame of light sputtered in the depths of a tangible darkness.

Immediately, they saw the bodies . . .

At first Hera thought they were statues—their postures bizarre and unnerving—carved from the volcanic stone of far–away mountains. She could see, in rough detail, pain–distorted faces, teeth bared, nostrils flaring. Some carried the ashy remains of weapons, others the bodies of their fallen. A ring of large statues encircled a gang of smaller ones, their arms spread out protectively over them. They were beautiful, in a horrific way, if only because they revealed the lasat’s last brave efforts to save their loved ones from certain doom. A gust of wind removed the head from one of the statues. Its shoulders and chest crumbled soon after. Hera looked at her feet.

“I–I’ve never seen anything so terrible.”

Kanan said nothing. All around him the dark side loomed, gnashing its teeth while it threatened to tear out his heart. Again.

A noise cut through the silence. Even as he brought his blaster up he saw, in the hazy distance, a trio of wild anoobas squabbling over a pile of bloated corpses. A family of lasat who were spared deaths by disruption got it by way of old-fashioned blaster–bolt, execution style, right through the head. The alpha anooba bellowed and clamped his vice–like jaws onto the flank of one insolent pup, causing it to yelp and drop the insect-covered arm held in its own jaws. Eyes narrowing, Kanan released a bolt into the middle of the rabble and the anoobas fled, howling.

“I’m going to search the ah, ‘palace.’” He said, motioning to the bombed-out corpse of fancy stone, wood and coloured glass. “At least I think it was a palace.”

“Good idea. I’ll take the Phantom and go on a little further. I think we should consider taking some of the landspeeders. The speeders around here are in _okay_ shape but I might find some better ones.”

“Sounds like a plan. The Ghost’s belly could probably hold ten or so.”

“I’ll contact you in one standard.” Captain Syndulla looked at her chrono and then boarded the small ship moored at the rear of the Ghost.

“Hera?”

She turned before closing herself in.

“What?”

“Be careful.”

“I will. If I get into trouble I’ll call Chopper,” she teased, He’ll swoop down and save me like the knight in shining orange armour that he is.”

Kanan could hear the droid’s retort through his communicator. “Now what did he say?”

Hera sighed. “He said if either one of us tries to bring a live lasat on board the Ghost he will leave us here, sell our belongings and buy himself a new chassis.”

“Don’t worry buddy. The chances of that are about a billion to one.”

They parted and went their own ways. Since Kanan had decided to search what remained of the palace, Hera chose to follow the roads and check the rubble piles stationed along them. If she had to guess what they were, she would have said homes. She flew lower and saw not only more dead lasat, but also dead Imperial troops. Unlike the disintegrated natives’ bodies, the stormtroopers were either torn to pieces or bent into painfully–improbable positions.

Hera winced at the sight of a 'u–shaped' stormtrooper, his bootheels touching the back of his crushed helmet.There were a number of vehicles laying or floating about, but all of them had some form of damage or another. It was a shame, as the lasat speeders were some of the most stylish she had seen. A wave of self-loathing smashed into her.

_‘We’re doing this for the rebellion, Hera. For the rebellion...’_

She continued flying low through ash and dust. Searching for factories, pieces of lasat technology or even places with salvageable metal or wood seemed fruitless - the only thing she came across was a destroyed factory that once produced bread and other baked goods. It was disappointing, but at least the large ovens inside could be pulled out and sold.

What she had hoped to find was the arms factory Chopper had mentioned to her earlier. To those who ran the hyperspace routes near Lasan, it was legendary. Much like the people of Ryloth, lasat seemingly preferred to use weapons made by their own kind. From the reputation, they got there was something special, mythical almost, about lasat weapons. No doubt the Empire got to the factory first.

As she flew on through the ash-clogged sky the roads thinned and disappeared altogether. A great expanse of desert–marred only by a singular service highway– panned out in front of the Phantom. Hot winds carved ricochets of ripples into the amethystine sand and bolstered the wings of large gliding lizards looking for prey among the dunes. Hera marvelled as she flew between towering purple buttes and tabletop mesas that rose up from the desert floor. Slants of sunlight, piercing the gloom, caught the crystals in the rock on fire. It was undeniably stunning, and for a moment she revelled in the joy of flight.

Suddenly, a dozen or so hulking land transports lying dead on the highway caught her eye. With a flick of her ship’s control yoke, Hera dipped lower and made a pass by them.

_“Yes!”_ She whispered to herself. The transports might have been stained with soot, but otherwise, they actually appeared intact. With the beginnings of a smile playing on her lips she whipped back around, hovered for a moment, then set the Phantom down on the alien roadway.

Not wasting a second, Hera unbuckled her seat restraint and grabbed a pry bar from the Phantom’s utility locker. Mashing the hatch release button, she ran out into the dry desert air. Her hand paused by her rebreather mask. She took a deep breath.

The air was hot, so hot it nearly scorched her throat, but at least it was free of the scent of smoke and death. She afforded herself quick peeks into the cabs of the transports and wondered what happened to the drivers bodies. A shadow passed over her, followed by the dry rustle of leathery wings.

“Oh.”

Using her pistol, she shot the lock off the first transport’s rear hatch. She then took up the pry bar and wedged it into the area between the hatch and the frame. The hatch slid aside and a powerful, horrible smell nearly knocked the twi’lek woman out. She put her forearm up to her nose and looked inside.

It was fish...large, beaked torpedo–shaped fish with bioluminescent scales, long dorsal spines, and four serrated fins. Crate after crate of them. Probably destined for the palace and restaurants in the surrounding city. Hera huffed with disappointment and indignation - dead and decaying fish wouldn’t help the Rebellion!

The next transport yielded a full batch of hard rubber parts. Hera had no idea what they were, or what they could possibly be used for. She picked up a thick yellow ring, examined it and tossed it back onto the pile of others. She wiped a trickle of sweat from her grimy neck.

“Talk about a whole lot of nothing. . .”

Hera checked one more transport and was just as disappointed as she had been with the last two. Boarding the Phantom, she went on her way. The shipboard computer announced that she was heading toward the coast. Encouraged, she sped up. As outside air cooled considerably, a ridge of high-backed dunes rose up ahead of her. With a flick of the control yoke she gained altitude and soared over them. What she saw on the other side made her gasp.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/153886044@N07/37169083700/in/dateposted-public/)

On the downslope, banks of smaller dunes graduated into a wide swath of beach, nestled among cliffs. What looked like homes seemed to dot this landscape, so she made a beeline toward a suitable landing spot on some high cliffs. Hopefully, this landing wouldn’t be as much of a waste of time as the last...

The Phantom touched down near a cracked fountain, clouds of dust whirling around her landing skids. Attaching her breath-mask, she opened the door and gagged at even a filtered lungful of the hazy air—the smell of fuel, soot and decay made her eyes water. She locked the Phantom up tight and ventured forth, only to pause and draw her blaster at an odd sound. After a tense moment, she saw its source—three cat-like creatures with muscular forearms and wicked back–curving claws were lapping at the scum-covered water. Hera pulled her pistol and shot over the creatures’ heads. They loped away, screeching angrily.

Letting out a breath, Hera found her gaze drawn to where the (ash-coated) pale lavender sand met a darkened sea. From her cliff-top view, Hera could easily see patches of marbled iridescence that marked the ocean in an eerie rainbow tint. It became clear where the Empire’s machines of war had toppled. Dark tendrils of fuel snaked from the bellies of tanks and walkers, threatening to contaminate all of the shorelines.

Stilt homes, charred as black as the now-polluted sea, lay crumpled along the beachhead like a windowsill of dead arachs. Hera tried to imagine a once–pristine beach, the ocean lapping at it with swells of briny foam. She thought about the lasat—though it was hard to visualize what she had never seen—gathering seashells and driftwood embedded in the damp sand, a warm, salty breeze wafting in from the deeps at the end of the day.

Turning her gaze further inland, Hera saw a broken sign at the entrance of this large coastal town. Even if she’d known the language, she doubted she’d be able to make out what it said—scorch marks covered the wood. It seemed to be the only thing still standing from the onslaught, at least on the beach itself.

Sighing through her breath-mask, Hera turned away from the devastation and got on with the task at hand.

Looking at her surroundings, she realised she’d touched down in what looked like a neighbourhood of once–affluent homes. There was more of the same marbleized brick and blue tile which she saw on the palace grounds, beautiful even through the ashy coating that clung to every surface. These lasat, she deduced, must have been of a higher standing than the ones in their stilt homes on the shore. Hera fought the familiar little demon on her shoulder. This was the perfect place to look for valuables, gems, precious metals and the like. She had to remind herself that she and Kanan had agreed on finding salvageable scrap.

But who would it hurt if she accidentally came across something pretty?

Leaving her shuttle behind, Hera started walking along a pink marble path, stirring dust up with every step. She held her nose when she passed the dehydrated carcass of some huge quadruped mammal with a long, branched antler on its snout. Behind the body was a overturned ag–cart, its bounty of fruits and vegetables half-lost to insects and decay. Hurrying away, she misstepped and nearly fell into the caved–in floor of a lasat shop. Perching on the rim of the cavern and peeked down. She squinted, then flinched back - a half–dozen charred lasat lay dead in a row, their heads bored through with concentrated blaster fire.

_‘The smell of the large rotting animal must have masked their scent until now,’_ Hera realised, gagging as she kicked away from the edge. There were no survivors here, and still no salvageable items. Getting up, she checked the ruins of another shop.

A peaked roof (perhaps traditional) seemed to be the only thing still intact. An empty poison–smoke canister lay by the blackened foot of a sweet-faced little girl. A child’s money–belt purse, its flap open, was still in one hand. Toy credits littered the ground around her head, framing her platinum purple hair and soft face.

Hera had seen her first intact lasat. An innocent child with pink ears and dull yellow eyes and a tiny snub for a nose. With the calm noise of waves the only thing she could hear, Hera could almost believe the girl was at peace. The twi’lek shook her head and hurried away from the scene, swallowing back down the acidic taste that had risen up her throat.

_'I can’t do this_ ... _I can’t see this.’_ She suddenly remembered her mother, carrying her through the war-torn streets of her home on Ryloth. Every so often her mother’s fine-boned hand would close over her eyes and she would whisper into her ear cone, _“Don’t look darling. Don’t look.”_

The twi’lek woman knew now what her mother didn’t want her to see, and she doubted it looked much different from what she was seeing here. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, lungfuls of the salty air giving her something to focus on.

Opening her eyes, Hera crossed the street with renewed purpose. Small, bald–tailed carnivores with slender bodies like lengths of fuel line scrambled under her feet and disappeared inside the aqueduct that ran the length of the hilly city. Still listening to these few still-living creatures, she took a few more steps and stubbed her toe on an ornate carved wooden shield, its matching warclub peeking out from under it. A hairy behemoth of a being lay still in the scorched rubble a few feet away. There was dried blood in the matted fur on its head. Hera nudged the shield again, letting the dust disperse.

“Wookiees! So they _were_ aiding the lasat. . .”

There was a crash. It came from behind a smouldering pile of debris across the street. Drawing her Blurrg pistol, Hera bent down, making herself smaller, and crept toward the source of the noise. As she drew closer, she could see a small spacecraft of unknown origin parked in a clearing next to the smoking pile. It wasn’t anything Imperial, that much she knew, but who did it belong to? And furthermore, how friendly were they?

She quietly slipped behind the pile and held her pistol, business side up, next to her face. Edging around the pile, she slowly lowered the gun and took a quick peek.

In the middle of the clearing, dressed in layers of ratty cloaks and covered with bulging packs was a Ubese woman. Her gnarled white hands seemed to be in constant motion, while loose locks of hair the colour of dirty snow stayed still. She wore a strange mask with a toothed grate in the front, and when she talked to herself—and answered herself—her voice came out as a series of raspy electronic bleats. Turning, the Ubese woman stared at the twi’lek woman with the gun then, unfazed, went back to work, rummaging through the contents of the building without a second glance.

“You’re a scavenger, aren’t you?” Hera said, with poorly–masked disdain. She lowered her gun.

_“Eohtu. Esso bloo!” (You’re one to talk!)_ The Ubese spat back. Her hands continued to paw and dig. A greedy little fly. With a triumphant electronic _blat_ , she unearthed a fancy hand mirror and an organic–looking trinket box still clutched in the rictus grin of a scorched lasat. She callously ripped the goods from the dead lasat’s hands, breaking every blackened finger, and shoved the treasures into one of her packs. She continued searching.

Hera grit her teeth. She wanted to shoot the masked corpse–picker in the back of the head but put the brakes on her violent train of thought.

_“Why am I mad at her?”_ She asked herself, bitterly.  _“Aren’t I doing the same thing?”_

It was distasteful and morbid to steal from the dead, true, but in the end, who was it hurting? Dead lasat needed their possessions as much as Hoth needed snowstorms. _‘Maybe the Ubese people are suffering because of the Empire too. Did you think of that?’_ Hera swallowed down her ire, turned, and walked away.

She put as much distance as she could between her and the Ubese woman in hopes that she wouldn’t have to hear any more of her inane prattling and covetous scrabbling. Hardly looking where she was going, she found herself by a winding drive with a flattened family speeder. A hot–shot’s swoop bike protruded from its windshield. At the top of the drive was the remnants of yet another fancy home.

_‘Someone here liked flowers,’_ Hera thought to herself.

All around the former entrance were heaping compost piles of lace orchids, killows of paradise, yellow philoss, bear ears and silver nova roses. For a moment, with only the smell of compost and salt, she could almost forget the devastation. But the sounds of the sea were all she could hear, eerie silence shaking her out of her revery.

All around the former entrance were heaping compost piles of lace orchids, killows of paradise, yellow philoss, bear ears and silver nova roses. For a moment, with only the smell of compost and salt, she could almost forget the devastation. But the sounds of the sea were all she could hear, eerie silence shaking her out of her revery.

When Hera stepped inside she was greeted with more of the same destruction. She leaned against one of the walls and kicked at the ground in frustration. The toe of her boot dislodged something. Something round, and golden as a newly–minted credit. Curious, she knelt and picked it up. There was some sort of runic markings on it, a series of concentric circles—smaller connected circles within the larger ones’ margins.

Turning it around, she saw similar markings on the other side, clearly made with great care. She couldn’t translate what it said, of course, but wished she could. This golden coin felt too heavy to be used for currency. No, it definitely looked more like a medallion of sorts. With a sigh, Hera stared down at the lovely thing, the only thing on this cursed planet that looked as it did before the war. She pressed it to her heart, wondering who its owner was. Had they gotten away? Did they fight bravely to defend their loved ones from the menace that plagued their land?

Hera thought about the bent, gnarled–handed scavenger and felt a pang of guilt.

_"I'm no better than her.”_

No. She wouldn’t sell it. She would rescue it from its tomb and hold it until she could place it into the hand of the first live lasat she came across in her travels. It may have been a special piece or merely a paperweight, but she didn’t care. It was beautiful and it was a survivor. She slipped it into her pocket.

Rising to her feet, Hera walked around the home’s spacious floor. The walls separating rooms might be gone, but the crumbled bases remained—letting her imagine what it might have been like. In one room, burned clothes littered a section of floor where a closet once stood. In the same corner was a hinged metal box, like a safe box but flatter, with what looked like a serial number engraved in it. She raised an eyebrow and picked it up. Surprisingly, it was lighter than she expected—only as heavy as if it were full of meilooruns.

Turning, she headed out of the room and entered what was once a large living area. Burnt pictures still in their frames littered the floor, with shards of glass surrounding them. Cups and plates lay cracked near the table. By what was once a chair, a book with an ink pen wedged between the crisped pages showed a scene of domestic goings on—what must have taken place not so long ago before the home was destroyed.

Continuing on, she walked past a shattered stone fireplace, box under her arm, and looked down. Scattered on the floor were the bones of a pet anooba. There was a gem-studded collar around the part of the neck that still had flesh on it. She sadly sighed, the poor thing must have been terrified before it was gunned down by the troopers, dying to protect its master’s home. The silence seemed to echo through the whole building.

Shifting the box under her left arm, Hera left the shell of the home. Crossing through the rubble of a plaza, she found herself at the foot of a stairwell that led to a massive, solar-powered repulsor bridge. She stepped out onto it, carefully, took hold of the spiral–cable handrails and began walking. Every footstep seemed loud like the bridge was trying to remember the noise of not so long ago. As she looked down, she noticed the pedestrian bridge spanned another one; with lanes for large vehicles, smaller vehicles and large domestic beasts. Speeders of every shape and size lay in ruin, their once–colorful surfaces now dusted with a fine coat of grey. Their owners were reduced to ashy near–forms, as were what looked like a herd of cow-sized flightless avians. Hera could see the remains of their saddles and sadly imagined a group of lasat out for a relaxing ride when disaster suddenly struck.

The Twi’lek leaned against the rail and folded her hands on top of it. A warm breeze coming off the ocean tickled her lekku, but did little to improve her lonely mood. There was nothing but destruction as far as the eye could see, and she knew that there was more of the same beyond the amethyst–colored mountains in the east. Patches of lavender sky peeked through holes in the noxious smog. The sun was a sad, pale bead on an invisible string, reflecting itself in the debris-clogged bay spanned by the pedestrian bridge.

Hera descended the stairs and jogged back to the courtyard, box still in hand. At the far end, she saw some clustered apartments and homes, ones which had survived the bombing. She ran to them, hopeful, but they too turned up empty—already looted by someone, Imperial or otherwise. Her shoulders slumped.

There were more homes all around her, but most of the fancy structures were reduced to gravel and puddles of melted glass. Only one other home in the whole area wasn’t sitting in the bottom of a charred crater. She decided to give it a try, even though most of its walls had collapsed.

Before she started moving, however, Hera’s communicator pinged. Lifting it, she answered as she lay it flat on her palm. A tiny, blue, masked man appeared, his hands firmly on his hips.

“Having any luck?” Kanan asked, something bleak in his voice.

“Hm...found a medallion and a box” Hera replied, suddenly aware of the medallion in her belt and the box under her arm.

“Maybe we won’t come empty-handed after all,” Kanan said, pausing to look away from his holo at something Hera couldn’t see, “I think whatever’s left of the palace’s going to fall soon. It’s not safe.”

“I hope you’ve found something worth the risk of this scavenger hunt?”

“I’m still four floors under. Found some dead Stormtroopers on my way over. I think there might be a dungeon beneath me but I don’t ‘feel’ anything there...”

“Well, that’s not surprising. But what is surprising, on my way over here I found Stormtroopers with Wroshyr wood spears in them.”

“Wroshyr spears?” Kanan’s expression lit up. “You mean wookiees were with them?”

“I’d say so. I found skeletons and a body that didn’t look like a human’s or a lasat’s.” Hera explained, lekku slumping as she avoided another anooba skeleton. “They went down fighting, that’s for sure. Lots of dead troops around them.”

“Don’t think there’s anything here on this floor either” Kanan continued, faint sounds of wood being tossed carelessly aside giving Hera some idea of his current actions, “I’m getting sick of turning over rocks only to find another dead body. Kids are the worst...”

Hera’s mouth curved into a frown as she recalled that small girl she found in the wreckage of the toy shop. She hadn’t bothered searching the destroyed schools, and didn’t intend to—the last thing she needed was to find broken classrooms full of children who died in fear. They would never have expected that this time they left home for another mundane school day it would have been the last time they would see their loved ones.

“...don’t give up yet,” she found herself saying, “even if there’s no survivors we could find something worth this trip.”

“Yeah, I’ll try.” Kanan said, his mouth a grim line. “Spectre One out.”

Hera pocketed the communicator, sighing as she made her way into the next ruin. She only hoped she’d find something to give to Vizargo that wouldn’t leave guilt plaguing her.

* * *

Kanan pocketed his communicator and sighed with relief. Hera was okay. Better yet, she was managing to keep her head about her which was more than he could say about himself. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. He breathed slowly through his nose. His mind was flint and his heart was iron. Struck together, they created a spark of memory.

_“Everything is bound to the force Caleb, from the tiniest amoeba to the largest purgill.”_

_“But I thought only those gifted with midichlorians could call upon the force, master.”_

_“No. It is a common misconception. Midichlorians are simply numbers of measurement, scales upon which the force is weighed. I do not concern myself with the science of the force but there are others who do. All things have the force, Kanan. Animals migrate by way of the force. Trees grow tall from the living force in the rays of the sun. Mountains contain hidden crystals which amplify it.”_

“It seems the force passed over the lasat didn’t it, Master?” Kanan snarled to himself.

He regretted saying it before he finished speaking. There might have been dead lasat all around with every step, their desiccated limbs sprouted from openings in their intact armour while their helms lay upturned near their eyeless heads, but he still shouldn’t have insulted her. Apologising to his dead master under his breath, he squared his shoulders and spurred himself to move on and look for salvageable scrap.

Some parts of the marble walls remained standing, but they were shadows of their former selves. Once high as the clouds, with glittering bands of precious ore running through the solid blocks, they were now nothing more than blackened ruins.

The floor shuddered slightly beneath feet, reminding him of how what once must have been grand, spear-like towers were bent and buckling. He had to hurry.

Four levels below the ashen surface, Kanan passed through a destroyed portcullis and entered into the visitor's hall where, miraculously, a melt–glass window still dwelled as its roof. Weak sunlight from passed through the artistically cut panes, throwing kaleidoscopic, coloured cloaks over the bodies of the dead lasat warriors.

There was nothing here but bodies, blackened furniture and artwork, and a wrought–ore chandelier, twenty feet across. While Kanan contemplated the chandelier, he looked around for a way down to the subterranean throne room. All of the lifts were in various states of disrepair. One even threw out errant sparks as the doors opened and closed repeatedly, and Kanan decided not to press his luck by trying it. He stalked over to the hall’s elegant, railed balcony, cautious of the tilting floor, and looked down.

It was a long way to the ground, and the staircases on both ends of the visitor's hall were gone. With feline-like grace, Kanan leapt up on top of the balcony railing and peered into the dim chamber below him. He bent his knees and pushed off the railing, soaring high into the air. The padawan felt the tug of gravity on his body and called the force to himself to lessen it, but anger and fear distracted him. Kanan’s fifty–foot free–fall was slowed. Partially.

He landed square on his feet, plumes of dust rising up around them. The force of the long fall caused a shockwave of pain to shoot up his shins into his knees. He buckled and fell to the sooty ground with a grunt. Gritting his teeth, Kanan raised up on one sore knee then pushed himself all the way up. He slapped the ash and marble dust from his trousers and swept his shirt with his hands. He took a few furtive steps and came upon one of the pillars holding the visitor’s hall balcony up. An Imperial stormtrooper was wrapped around it. Twice.

Kanan whistled a single note.

“That had to hurt.”

He walked away, casting a backwards glance at the pulverized man.

“Good.”

The room was perhaps the most dismal yet. Here, the bodies were so thick Kanan couldn’t help but step on some of them. The lasat, he realized with disgust, were easier to tread upon than solid–bodied stormtroopers. Lasat corpses exploded into clouds of cloying ash when his boots made contact with them.

“If this is the throne room, I’d hate to see what the dungeon looks like.” Kanan hissed through his teeth. Then he nearly tripped over a trooper’s helmet..

_‘Blast it!’_ He thought, _‘There’s nothing here! No thrones, no treasures, no tapestries. Just a burnt out hall filled with buckethead and alien stiffs. Obviously some lucky bastard beat us and cleaned this place out. They_ had _to!’_

A deep groaning rumble resonated through the palace’s wounded levels. Marble dust sifted down from above. Kanan coughed and covered his eyes with his wrist. It was getting beyond dangerous here. If he was crushed, Hera would be on her own. He couldn’t accept that. The padawan was about to get on his communicator to tell Hera he had abandoned his quest when he felt a repeating feather–stroke pulse, faint as a kitten’s, and more importantly, not his own. The terrible hall disappeared. In Kanan’s tunnel vision, he saw a candle in the dark, its tiny flame sputtering as it struggled to stay lit. Suddenly, he felt an incredible pang of empathy. For what or whom, he didn’t know.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/153886044@N07/36755841423/in/dateposted-public/)

“What’s going on?” Kanan said, rubbing the dust from his reddened eyes.

Another rumble. The floor heaved.

_‘Ignore it….gotta get the hell out.’_

Kanan leapt from body to body, trying to plant his feet in the tiny spaces between them, but he wasn’t very successful. Puffs of black, cremated–lasat ash rose in his wake.There was another colossal shake and a spate of gravel poured from the floor above. The padawan stepped back to avoid the gravel and banged his heel against a jagged piece of collapsed wall.

“Ow! Sith spit!” He shouted, rubbing his sore foot.

He waited there on the unsteady floor, wondering how long it would take for the palace’s entire substructure to give way. As he waited, he scanned the shadowy hall with his eyes. Taking a light stick from his belt, he snapped the casing and threw it down. An intense yellow glow surrounded him in a radius of twenty meters. Now he could see the bodies of other lasat, those who had died of less cruel means. They wore armoured body suits and capes and a few of them had their helmets off their heads – and some had their heads still inside the helmets as they were gruesomely pulled from their bodies

They weren’t a handsome species, at least not by Kanan’s standards, but no one could say they weren’t impressive. They had pointed ears, large, globular eyes and heavy brow bones. Their robust jaws were decorated with beautifully coiffed beards, some curled, others long and flowing, and they bore bony humps atop their heads. A pair of curved folds, like parenthesis, framed their slot–like nostrils and stern mouths. The females had less rugged features than their male counterparts but they were no less intimidating. Perhaps the most beautiful thing about them–besides those splendid beards–was their coats. Some were purple, others blue or red. All were accented with stripes, swirls or spots.

Kanan’s foot fell victim to pins and needles, even though it hadn’t fallen asleep. As he waited for the pain to cease, he looked down at the fallen slab of wall he was standing by. It was broken in half, the two separated ends jutting upward A slow–moving trickle of blood meandered down one broken side. Kanan stooped to catch some blood on his fingertips. He rubbed his finger and thumb together and grunted. The blood–darker than a human’s– was just starting to congeal, but there was still a trace of warmth to it.

_‘Poor guy. Must have been crushed recently.’_

Kanan caught something in the periphery of his sight. It was an oil lamp, dented, but obviously made of pure aurodium. Next to the lamp lay a long, extended weapon of a like he had never seen. There were strange writings on it, and some sort of leather wrapped around its twin handle grips. Below the rifle’s barrel, on each end, was an energy conductor of sorts. Kanan made a clicking noise between his teeth and cheek. The gun was something very precious indeed.

“Ahhh. You two will fetch a pretty credit. Or a couple thousand.”

As he bent down to reach it he started to feel claustrophobic, trapped. His heart began to beat with terror. He felt his throat close off, felt his body being compressed, like a grape being juiced by a giant millstone.

Then, as fast as they came, the harrowing sensation went away. Kanan clutched his heart and panted. He saw another one of those strange little carnivores lapping at the thickening blood. It wriggled between the slab and the one below it. The sound of that weakening pulse throbbed in Kanan’s ear.

“It can’t be...It can’t.”

_‘How full of doubt you’ve become, Caleb'_ he could hear his Master's chiding voice

A pull like a tractor beam drew Kanan in. He hunkered down and placed his palm on the top of the marble slab he had hit his heel on. Like the blood, there was a slight warmth to it. He heard a scratching sound deep below. This wasn’t the little pipe–bodied critter that escaped between the compressed stone. This was something larger, with larger claws.

He attempted to move the large slab by both pushing on it with his body, placing a few well-placed shots with his trusty DL-18 (which only succeeded in scorching the slab) and lifting it by hand, bracing his legs. It was of no use, the slab refused to budge and Kanan, who landed unceremoniously on his rump, growled. There was no way a human could move the slab by muscle alone. He sighed heavily, he didn’t want to resort to this but if there was someone still alive, buried under there he needed to take the risk.

He stood up and looked both left and right, ever on the lookout for a curious thief scavenging through the ruined temple. Once he was satisfied that he was alone, he directed all his concentration on the split slab. It was ten feet long, ten feet across and twelve inches thick, but that wasn’t an issue. Size matters not to the force, he once heard Master Billaba say. It was something Master Yoda preached to her when she was a young and doubting girl.

The room rumbled once more. Kanan tried not to think about it. He closed his eyes and imagined a web of the force encompassing one heavy piece of the wall. He caught the bunched ends of the web–net and heaved with the force. A loud groan from the hall impaired his focus.The energy threads broke, sizzling faintly. 

_'Too hard.’_ The familiar voice chided him. _‘You need only tug lightly. . . To be in the force is to be submerged in the force. Ignore the sounds in your ears. Be deaf to them. Let the force serve as your senses.'_

Kanan tried again. The broken energy webs snaked over the top of the slab, reconnecting and repairing themselves. He gripped the bunched ends again and tugged lightly, hand over hand, as if he were pulling a fishing net out of a calm sea. His jaw relaxed. His brow smoothed. He took a deep, calming breath. One of the large pieces turned end up and floated in mid–air. Kanan directed it toward the far side of the hall where it settled gently. He repeated the process and the other piece followed. Mentally winded, Kanan sat down.

“Whew, am I out of practice.” he grumbled.

He wiped his brow and looked into the pit– which the fallen wall had created– and saw a broken structural pylon and other smaller chunks of marble brick. Someone lay just below. A desperate someone. Kanan could feel the weak heartbeat and straining breath of an injured being who had lived much longer than he should have. He sensed a being with a strong, corporal desire to live.

And it was no stormtrooper.

He could not believe it, he had found a tiny ember of life within a sea of death and desolation, but something impeded it.

Aided by the force, Kanan pulled up the brick and shoved the pylon aside. He was presented with a dorsal view of a large alien skeleton and could see–through the ribs and under the fleshless spine–the barely–alive lasat beneath. The skeletonised corpse refused to budge from mere human strength. With a frustrated growl Kanan looked around to make sure he wasn’t followed and tapped into the Force for a brief moment. The skeleton began to shake apart, and with a grunt of effort, the bones exploded with a deafening crack. The recoil was enough for Kanan to be knocked backwards and landed on his rear with a shout. His arms shielded him from most of the bone shrapnel. 

Kanan coughed as bone dust irritated his mouth and throat. Once he opened his eyes he saw the living–albeit unconscious–lasat, laying on its back in a pool of its own blood. The lasat’s suit was burned and torn, so much that only a pair of tattered shorts made of the suit’s material remained.

The lasat’s broad, muscular chest, rakish, half–burnt beard and bowed, tree–trunk thighs gave one the impression of a sporting gladiator or professional brawler. His head was tilted back and his mouth was open, allowing Kanan a good peek at his sizable, bloodstained canines. The man wanted the alien to be all right, but hoped beyond hope that he would remain unconscious for the duration of the flight to the med–station.

_'Looks like you’ve seen better days, big guy…'_ Kanan grimly thought

The lasat was injured in too many places to count. Great oozing puddles of blistered flesh covered parts of his chest, shoulder, legs and right side of his face. Half his beard and one of his sideburns were completely burnt off, leaving behind charred, stubborn scruffs of hair and fur. A broken rib jutted from his flank while another, smaller shards of silver were poking out from his bare torso and arms.

Kanan’s horrified gaze moved towards the object pinning the lasat to the ground. His shoulder was a piece of the pylon he had moved aside. The alien’s entire chest and abdomen were dark with contusions and cuts and it appeared to be bloated with fluid. One of his closed eyes was so swollen and blue–purple it looked like a jogan fruit with a split in its rind.

It hurt to look at him. Kanan had seen bugs crushed underfoot with less damage done to them.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/153886044@N07/36755837833/in/dateposted-public/)

Still, his faint will to live was incredible. The lasat’s massive chest bucked and quaked as he tried to suck air into his injured lungs. Kanan shuddered at the resulting sound, the noise was of sludge moving slowly through a drain pipe. There was little time to waste. He fumbled for his communicator–nearly dropping it–and held it tight in his shaking hand then hailed his partner with an equally shaky voice.

“Hera...you better get over here now!! I've found someone!”

TBC

 


	3. Retrieval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kanan and Hera take the unconscious Zeb aboard the Ghost navigating the labyrinth of the palace after Kanan finds a secret passage, they contact Fulcrum to find a place where Zeb’s wounds can be treated without threat of attracting Imperial attention

**AN:**  Sorry for the long wait there's been some unavoidable real-life issues for all of us, credit to Fuzzydemolitionsquad for her exceptional writing skills and eyeloch's (our beta-reader) keen eye to detail. Aspiringwarriorlibrarian for her story assistance. Pictures/co-writing/story idea by DarkDranzer

 

  ** _Garazeb: Son of Lasan series_**

 _Saviour – Part III:_ _Retrieval_

* * *

Hera sat in silence in the cramped cockpit of the Phantom, drumming her fingers against the small shuttle’s instrument panel. Through the hazy sky, she almost thought she spotted a shooting star—but she doubted it would bring even a shred of luck. Kanan had been at the palace site for over two hours, long after she’d given up her own search, and the twi’lek woman was growing impatient.

Truth be told, the eerie quiet of the desolate planet unnerved her. Even after retreating into the Phantom, and its recycled air, the smells of decay still clung to her. She felt like she was in the vacuum of deep space – cold, silent and devoid of life. The only sound that pierced the silence was the intermittent blip of the Phantom’s life–form detector, finding nothing.

Swallowing down her guilt, Hera changed focus—trying in vain to get the sticky ash from her gloves. The fact her flight suit was stained with the remains of perhaps a dozen or more lasat turned her stomach. She had witnessed the extinction of a species—not the actual act, but its gruesome aftermath—and she now beginning to realise what a horrific thing it would be to carry around in the back of her mind for the rest of her life.

She would never forget the ravaged planet of Lasan and its people. She couldn’t. Even now she couldn’t help but think of the scorched child, left smoldering behind a boulder next to the Phantom. Those ashes still had the aroma of cooked flesh and hair. The ashes on her still smelt like that too. She might as well be covered in dead bodies, might as well be gripped by hundreds of lifeless hands.

Screams seemed to echo in her head. The unpleasant aroma filled Hera’s nostrils. Whirling around, she staggered to the hatch, while her vision blurred. Fumbling it open, she threw up—heaving out bile (and the remains of half a protein bar) into the foul air. Gagging, she slammed the hatch shut and slumped down against it in a daze. Ashy trails were left where her suit rubbed the wall. She tried to breathe. She drifted.

...eventually she came back to herself and found the energy to stand again. To rinse out her mouth, then rifle through the med pack to find something to tame her dry heaves. Once that was done though, without a task to set her mind to, she wrapped her arms around herself tightly and fell into the pilot’s chair. Her eyes roamed back to the ash smeared on the wall of the Phantom. Despite her best efforts, the terrible things she had seen looped in her mind. Burned down villages and merchants shops and crisped, dark–gray corpses.

Suddenly Hera’s communicator went off, pulling her out of her morbid thoughts. Fumbling around her belt she activated it, squaring her shoulders as she did so. Fortunately, her years of being involved in the Rebellion helped with regaining her composure after witnessing traumatic events. There would be time to mourn and grieve later, right now there were more important things pressing her mind.

“It’s about time, but far be it for me to bring that up!” Hera hissed, letting anger spill into her voice.

Kanan’s response was garbled.

“What?” She said, raising her voice “You’re not coming through!”

“...Lost . .ack of time. .” Kanan’s voice crackled through. “Over here. . . found survi. . . or.”

“Did you say survivors?” Hera asked, hoping against hope she’d heard him right.

“Surviv– _or!”_ he replied, frantically, “Right here—ith me.”

“Koomani’s Kalikori! Are you serious?” Hera exclaimed, only to pause with worry. “What condition is the lasat in? What’s it look like?”

“Uhh… It’s unconscious. Purple….Big. Male...I think. I’m not about to ch–k.”

“I guess we can leave _that_ part for the medics…” Hera tittered.

Her gaiety was interrupted by Kanan’s panicked shouting.

“Kriff Hera! Get over here. . . hurt real bad! Bleeding. . .Bring….stretcher…..don’t know how long h—”

Loud static crackled out of the communicator, distorting not only the sound but the image as well. Hera banged the disc–shaped gadget against the console, fearing the signal was lost. A few seconds later, Kanan wobbled back into view. Barely.

“Kanan, I’ll be there soon.” She said, now serious, to the vague image of her partner.

“N...no–ow—”

“Copy that Specter One.” She replied, already rushing through her pre–flight checks.

Hera wasn’t sure if Kanan got her last message before the signal was completely lost, but right now it didn’t matter. Her partner had found something worth more than whatever riches remained on the planet - and right now the creature’s life hung in the balance. Newly determined, she gunned the engine as hard as she could, racing back to the capital.

* * *

In the ruins of what used to be an elaborate throne room, Kanan was desperately trying to keep the only flicker of life on the desolate world burning. But it was not an easy task.

The rattling breaths of the wounded soldier were getting fainter. The lone candle of life on this silent planet was sputtering out.

“C’mon big guy,” he muttered, uncertain to what he even _could_ do, “You gotta hold on…”

With no better ideas, Kanan ripped off a piece of his shirt. He wiped at the lasat’s mouth and cleared his crusty nostrils best he could. It didn’t help much. As Kanan had already suspected, his lungs were filling with blood and Force knows what other organs had been damaged. He didn’t have a clue about Lasat physiology, but it was probably best to elevate his head.

Which would be more than a little tricky, given the metal beam going straight through the warrior’s shoulder.

Kanan, despite trying to drink it away for years, had always been a quick thinker. In seconds, he realised there’d be no way to remove or shift the splintered strut out of the rubble it was caught in—without killing the person attached! His only option was to cut the beam away, but he didn’t have any sane way to do so. He _did_ have a blaster, though.

All but protesting his own plan, he ran his hand lightly over the blood-crusted metal - brushing away the worst of the metal splinters above the wound. He shifted around the prone lasat until he found somewhere to plant his feet, then braced himself. With a sharp exhale, he started to lift the large alien.

He tried to keep the motion as steady as he could—the poor guy didn’t need any new wounds—but he couldn’t help but wince as droplets of fresh blood trickled down the pole. Inch by agonising inch, he hefted the warrior’s impressive bulk up to give him a clear shot.  

Bracing the weight (and smell) of the soldier against his left side, he tried to steady his hand.  Saving this life might be a hopeless cause, but he couldn’t let it be his blaster that snuffed out this last light. Despite those fears though, Kanan couldn’t do nothing. So he breathed away his fear, set the power as low as he could, then steadied his aim and fired.

...no ricochet, thank the Force, but not much effect either. With no better options, he pulled the trigger again. And again. He dared to increase the power, and fired once more. Glaring in desperation at his slowly-softening target (firing as much as he dared), he didn’t realise his blaster was overheating until it sputtered and died. Growling in desperation, he hit the weakened beam with the butt of his blaster pistol. Still bracing the lasat, he changed his footing, then took another swing at the softened metal. Finally seeing an effect, he slammed his strength into the _kriffing_ beam until the strut finally snapped.

Muscles aching, he took the alien’s weight back onto his arms, then reached around his thick neck. With a grunt of exertion, Kanan pushed him up into a semi sitting position. As he did so, he had to wince - dark, clotted blood bubbled from his chest wounds while the broken rib sickeningly slid further out of his flesh. Trying to keep the remains of the rod from moving, Kanan supported the lasat. Hands sweaty with nerves fumbled, losing their grip. On reflex he called out to the Force, letting his old training keep the soldier still.

With his other hand he searched his belt and unhooked the spare rebreather he had brought ‘just in case’. He cupped the lasat’s snout with its mouthpiece, thanking the niggling thought he’d had earlier, and flicked on the oxygen scrubber. As it hummed to life, fresh air was forced into the lasat’s lungs through his now unclogged nostrils.  

“That’s good, breathe,” he found himself saying, “Heh...don’t worry pal I’m not letting you go. You hear me? We’re in this together.”

Still trying to calm his own breathing, Kanan looked over his shoulder. He’d hoped, he realised, to see Hera there - even though he had only contacted her less than a minute ago. This lone survivor might be breathing, though Kanan didn’t know for how much longer...                                                        

* * *

Hera landed the Phantom by the palace ruins, the ash-speckled dust scattering in its wake. No sooner had she unbuckled her restraint belt than she’d darted to the med–locker. Tossing a small crate of bandages and antiseptic solution over her shoulder, she shoved wool emergency blankets aside with growing frustration. At the back of the locker, she finally got her hands around her goal - a collapsible stretcher. Scattering the other supplies in its wake, she tugged it out and mashed the button controlling the Phantom’s rear port door.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/153886044@N07/39620727704/in/dateposted-public/)

As the exit opened, agonisingly slowly for her racing mind, she realised Chopper’s voice was coming over the communicator. His binary grumbles seemed simultaneously bored and angry - and not even about much in particular. It was a fine time for the droid to be complaining about his emotional needs. Hera thumbed the communicator, now snug in her flight suit’s pocket, as she hauled the emergency stretcher out of the Phantom.

“Not now Chop!” She said, picking her way over rubble, “Listen, I need you to clean out the twin–bunk cabin. The one with the animal cages and Malestarian tapestries.”

There came an indignant, electronic moan.

“Just clear the lower bunk. And. . . sanitize it would you?”

Chopper belched once and signed off.

Hera shook her head. Picking up her pace, she ran to the ruins of the palace. Soon enough, she came to the main gate. Or what remained of it. Among the debris, she saw corpse after corpse–thankfully no young children this time–most still dressed in similar armour. Broken pieces of strange electro-staff weaponry laid by their deceased owner’s sides.

 _“They must have been warriors,”_ she mused, trying her best to avoid desecrating another body as she tugged the stretcher through the carnage.

Judging by the equal amount of dead stormtroopers laying around, they couldn’t have been anything else. Many of the lasat soldiers had been disrupted, leaving behind their armour like the husks of moulted insects. As she entered the palace, she looked back and spotted some armour that were too small to have fit any of the adult lasat she’d seen. She didn’t want to think how many of the butchered warriors were as young as her–perhaps younger–when she met Kanan.

She willed herself to turn her gaze into the palace and focus on the mission at hand. There’d be time to mourn later, but right now there could be a survivor–the last hope amongst the desolation–that needed her help. She came to an abrupt stop as she realised she’d reached a beautiful–albeit broken–marble half–arch, surrounded by immense pieces of the palace wall. She scrambled atop them, looking at their scintillating matrixes and climbed down the other side - still dragging the stretcher behind her. Before her was a shadowed, cave-like entrance. She took out her communicator.

“Kanan, I’m here. Where are you?”

More static, then—

“I’m below ground.” He finally replied, “In the throne room, I think. Be careful. I don’t know how sound the flooring is.”

“I can manage-Whoa!”

A loud crack echoed like a gunshot. Hera nearly dropped the stretcher, as her left foot suddenly plunged through the tiled floor. Nearly losing her balance for a second, she was only able to regain it by wheeling her arms in the air like a pair of spinning lightsabers.

Never had she been so glad that Kanan wasn’t here to see her. She pulled her foot out of the hole with an angry huff.

“You okay?”

She grit her teeth when she heard his familiar voice. Grumbling, she massaged her sore foot through her boot. Kanan’s hearty chuckling blared from her communicator’s speaker.

The twi’lek woman growled like an angry loth cat.

“Shut up.”

“I told you to be careful,” Kanan said in a sing-song tone.

“And I told you to shut up. Don’t we have a lasat to rescue?”

“Yeah,” Kanan replied, voice sobering, “I‘ve done what I can from here, slowed the bleeding as best I could, but my concentration isn’t what it used to be. I need you here with that stretcher. Hurry, but y’know, don’t hurry too fast. I still want you to be c—”

“Careful. Yes. We’ve been through this. I’m going now.”

Hera clipped the communicator to her belt and left it on. Rubbing her aching foot, she set out to find a way down to this lower level. There was a fifty-foot drop on one side and a broken suspension staircase on the other. Marble stairs hung from the cables like giant teeth dangling from a jaw by nerves. Hera swore. They weren’t very good choices. If she knew Kanan, he probably jumped - something she wouldn’t even consider. The top of the staircase was no more, leaving behind steps that only ascended halfway. The last few steps immersed in dust and large slabs of tile made from the floors above. Weak sunlight dappled through the holes, illuminating small portions of the staircase.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/153886044@N07/38522812200/in/dateposted-public/)

She knew she needed to use her arms in order to reach her partner, relatively unharmed. She threw the stretcher down the hole and it landed with a dull thud on a slab about twenty to fifty feet below. Slowly she made her way down, her injured foot hung limply as she made her careful descent into the abyss. Her ears pricked at every rumble the unstable, decimated building made, praying that the ceiling doesn't collapse while she was making her rescue attempt. When she landed on the last slab she turned on her communicator.

“Kanan, when I get to the ground level, which path do I take?”

It took awhile for the man to answer.

“At the bottom of the stairs, there are two columns of pillars with Lasani glyphs carved into them. Can you see them?”

Hera peered down into the gloomy chamber. She squinted her eyes and saw the broken staircase at the bottom. It was fortunate that the last flight of steps were directly below her, with less debris than the higher steps. She imagined when the staircase was at its former glory it formed twists and turns. 

“Yeah, I see them.”

“When you get down here you wanna head north. There’s a long blue carpet between the columns. I am at the end of the carpet, by some kind of dais or something. The floor's pretty torn–up here too."

“I’ll be careful,” Hera said, a little mirth still in her voice despite everything.

The twi'lek hoisted the collapsed stretcher over a remaining section of railing and dropped it on the steps and retrieved it one last time, using the wall for support she made a slow descent down the stairs, not daring taking her eye off the steps as she made her slow descent. Her heart leapt as she heard the building shift again as more debris rained down, covering the last of the steps in broken stone and dried mud-bricks and her heart sank. It seemed she had to jump the last few feet after all. She turned her head to the broken railing and made her way towards it slowly, she grasped the railing as tight as she could in case the remaining few stairs broke underneath her.

Collecting her courage she grabbed the stretcher and threw it over the railing, within a few seconds she heard a dull thump on the carpeted floor. Hera's mood lightened slightly, meaning that she wasn't far from Kanan or his new friend. There was a tinge of disappointment, however, as she realised that she'd have to be next and judging by the thud, the final drop was about five feet. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in her rebreather then exhaled, she bent down and tested her injured foot. She figured it was only a mild sprain and made a quick note to put a cold bacta pack on it later.      

_“Guess that means I’m next.”_

Hera swung one leg over the railing and then the other. She assessed her situation, then put both her feet down on the small shelf of marble on the other side of the railing. The cable she had her eye on was more than an arm’s length away.

“Why can’t things go easy this once?” She muttered bitterly.

Holding to the rail with one hand she stood on the tips of her toes and leaned forward. She stretched and strained until her tendons creaked. Her fingertips touched the cold, rainbow-hued metal of the cable.

Curling her fingers around it, she clenched her hand into a tight fist and jumped. Hera’s body slammed against a vertically–hanging marble stair, forcing the breath out of her. She set her boots onto the one below it and remained still, getting her breath back. As her mind caught back up with her body, she could feel the shattered staircase sway ever so slightly.

Moving carefully, Hera climbed down, one stair at a time. One was so broken–up she had only a five-inch chunk of surface on which she could plant her foot. When she finally neared the bottom, she jumped the remaining six feet to the ground, picked up the stretcher, wedged it under her arm and limped north at a rapid pace.   

“Okay, Kanan. . . I’m on your level now. I’m almost there!” Hera said, sighing. “I hope the poor guy doesn’t bleed out. . . “

Watery afternoon light filtered down from the top level, causing the columns to glow orange-pink. Hera side–eyed the columns, wondering why the glyphs on them looked so familiar.

“The medallion. Of course.” She said to herself. “That’s where I’ve seen it.”

The hall continued on for what seemed like forever. Miniature thunderheads of dust and ash sprang up beneath Hera’s feet as she moved across the dull blue carpet. She was about to call out when she saw Kanan’s feet protruding from behind a pillar. The last pillar.

The padawan’s ears perked up at the sound of approaching footsteps.

He smiled. He knew those footsteps like he knew the hilt of his lightsaber. Hera rushed to his side and dropped the stretcher. She watched Kanan’s hands as they hovered over the big alien’s chest. The blood trickling from his mangled body stopped in midstream and seeped into his purple fur. Kanan applied a folded piece of cloth to his chest and held it there.

Hera was aghast.

“You weren’t kidding about his condition, were you?” She leaned into the lasat and pressed her uncovered ear cone against his upper chest, trying to ignore the scent of his powerful perspiration. “His heartbeat is so weak,” she looked up at Kanan “He’s lost too much blood.”

She looked at the great gory puddle on the ground beneath him.  A droplet of blood slowly formed on the ragged end of a metal fragment that stuck through him.

“He’s probably been laying here for a while.” She spoke, almost clinically. “A human or twi’lek would have been dead hours ago.”

Kanan moved the stretcher over to himself and unfolded it with one hand. “Yeah. Tell me about it. He’s one tough son–of–a lothwolf.”

“Even the tough ones have their limits.” She murmured, mostly to herself, before snapping back to reality. “Okay, the Phantom is right above us. Do you know any other ways to get out of this place? We can’t make it up those stairs with him.”

“I dunno,” Kanan replied, eyes darting around the dim chamber, “I haven’t explored the place. That staircase is the only way out. . . that I know of anyway. We’ll make another exit if we have to.”

“Do you have a thermal detonator on you?” Hera asked, already knowing the answer.

“No. That’s the one accessory I forgot to pack for our vacation to Lasan.” Kanan half-joked, clambering to his feet. “Here, keep the compression on that.”

Kanan surrendered his position as Hera’s hand met his on the bloody cloth. As she applied pressure against the lasat’s chest, she watched the former padawan as he ran his hands over the palace’s underground walls.

“This place is like a fortress.” He grumbled.

“More like a death trap.” Hera called back. “There has to be another way out!”

“I know! Let me think!” Kanan continued, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

“A fortress,” he murmured, “built to protect the king and queen...”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/153886044@N07/26460424308/in/dateposted-public/)

He stared at the wall behind the ruined dais and the fancy tapestry hanging upon it. The ancient tapestry was well-worn with a crack that was split down the middle. A spark of hope glimmered in his eye. Leaping over the dais, he deftly avoided the wreckage of the thrones and ripped the heavy tapestry away from the wall. As moons folded themselves on the floor, Kanan spied the outline of a door at eight-feet high-in the marble bricks. There was no time to find the hidden spring–trap. With an angry hiss, he wedged his fingertips into the cracks and pulled until his fingertips bled.

_“Calm, padawan. Use the resource you have within you. The life you save depends on how you choose to act.”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/153886044@N07/39620717344/in/dateposted-public/)

Kanan pulled his hands back. He wiggled his fingers, feeling the force move through every bone, tendon and muscle. He closed his eyes and lowered his head. A look of serenity replaced his hurried and angry visage. In the dark–red world behind Kanan’s eyelids, he saw the outline of the hidden doorway. Blue light emblazoned the gap between the wall and door. Kanan raised his arm. A shuddering groan–the voice of the mortally–wounded palace– sounded throughout the royal hall. Reaching further, he willed the marble to open and slide back on its ancient track. He stepped forward, and his fingertips met only air. Whitish–pink dust showered down on the man’s head and shoulders as he stood where the wall had been moments ago. Ahead of him was a dark tunnel, strung with gossamer arach webs.

The way out.

Kanan opened his eyes. He blew out the stale air in his lungs. Though drained, he still managed to trot back to Hera.

The twi’lek’s eyes were transfixed on Kanan.

“You did it.”

Kanan moved a sweaty lock of hair from his face. “I guess I did.”

He looked at the unfortunate lasat, then, at the strewn pile of bones which were once an entire skeleton.They radiated an aura of bittersweet emotions, as if the bones were happy the living lasat was discovered, but sad that he was to be taken away. A tear traversed the tanned dune of Kanan’s cheek. Confused, he wiped it away.

“Let’s go.”

Kanan grappled the lasat’s beefy wrists and moved his arms into position over his head. Hera rose from her crouch and stood by the alien’s feet.

“Kriff, Kanan, his ankles are bigger than my waist!”

“Wrap your arms around them if you can. I’ll lighten the load. We’ll lift on three.”

“Give me a second. . .” Hera struggled with her purple–striped burden. She managed to avoid getting a fuzzy kneecap to the face when she accidentally brushed the burn on the lasat’s leg.

“Oohh, sorry big guy.” She looked at her glove, which was wet with blood and pus.

“Okay, Hera. Ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Here we go then. One. . . two. . . **three!** ”

The two of them grunted as they lifted the heavy lasat from his tomb of rubble and ruin and placed him on the stretcher. His long legs and feet extended three feet from the bottom. His facial muscles tensed, and one side of his mouth curled up into a pained snarl. The lasat may of been unconscious, but he could still feel the damage the imperials had wreaked upon him.

“I knew he’d be heavy.” Kanan said, puffing. “But not _that_ heavy.”

“Hold on Kanan. I have to get a hold of Chop.”

Hera switched her communicator to the droid’s frequency and hailed him. “Chopper! We’re in the palace and need a pick up. We’re gonna be heading north through a tunnel of some kind. Be ready for us.”

“Wup–wup whon ah doh whees?” The little astromech answered sourly.

“Yes, we’ve got one of those ‘things’. Hurry!”

Kanan and Hera grabbed the stretcher’s handles and hoisted the lasat up. Kanan afforded Hera a soft smile.

“I take it he’s not too happy about our find?”

“No, urrghh. . . Too bad we couldn’t just say he followed us home.”

Kanan moved back into the tunnel. Hera marched double–step to catch up. After they cleared the door, it raced forward on its track and slammed shut with a grinding, ear-splitting crash.

“Whoa!” Hera struggled to hold onto the stretcher. The lasat pitched to the side. Kanan immediately righted him.

“Sorry. Lost my concentration.”

The tunnel was black. Slimy things crawled beneath the man and woman’s feet and arach webs tangled in their hair and lekku. The walls here seemed to breathe. A stagnant breeze moaned through the lasat–made conduit, leaving stale air in its wake. Hera gasped as her foot crunched a dried–out femur, she shook her foot vigorously, trying to get the bone–dust off her foot. In the dim light, she now saw bones among the slime.

As her eyes began to adjust she saw more of the bones lining haphazardly on the narrow path, the sides leading into a darkened abyss. She shook her head at the unfortunate fates that befell those foolish lasat who dared to sneak through any of the King and Queen’s secret passages. Hera felt cold droplets of condensation, like the breath of a dead man, alight on her face. Gooseflesh raised on her skin.

“Remind me to never go on a date with you again.” She said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Aww, come on,” Kanan jabbed back, “I’m gonna pay for dinner.”

While he joked, however, Kanan continued to connect with the lasat through a circuit of the force. Not only did it lighten the burden, it also took the Lasat away from his pain.

They trudged on, dodging tree roots and maneuvering through tight spots until they saw a sliver of orange light limning a door–shaped fissure in the distance. Kanan extended an invisible tendril of the force and willed it to search. His forehead wrinkled with concentration. He could feel the rough, wet stone in his mind, felt the moss–covered lever in the wall next to it. He nudged it hard. Ancient gear–teeth clattered and gnashed and the dank tunnel was suddenly flooded with light.

They’d made it.

The Ghost was there, her ramp down and her engines screaming, the Phantom already docked in her aft. Chopper sat in the top hatch, rocking and burbling and spinning his dome like a mad droid whose circuits had been crossed. As happy as Hera was to see him, she still managed to groan. There was never any telling what the pugnacious little scrap–pile would do when his ire, or his jealousy, got the better of him.

Kanan and Hera had to push themselves to get up the ramp and into the ship. The twi’lek woman shouted, hoping her communicator would pick her up.

“We’re in Chopper! Close the ramp!”

They set the lasat down on the cargo bay floor and collapsed. Kanan scooted next to the stretcher and caught his breath. He reached out and took a hold of Hera’s gloved hand. She felt him squeeze.

The Ghost’s ramp clanged shut. Hera jumped up, breaking the contact she had with her partner.

“I’ve got to get us out of here.” She explained, willing herself back into action. “There might be listener ships in the area, and that’s the last thing we need.”

“Right,” Kanan replied, his adrenaline beginning to fade, “I’ll stay with him. Jump us somewhere safe.”

“Will do.” Hera stood up and ran for the ladder.

“Wait. . . Do you know where we are taking him? You know, a ‘safe’ medcentre. I mean it’s not like we can take a lasat to just any kind of medcentre…” his voice dropped “You _know_ what’ll happen.”

Hera clung to the ladder’s first step, mulling over her options.

“Yeah...I know” she murmured to herself, then she turned to Kanan, “I’m thinking on that. Don’t worry about it. You just focus on keeping him alive.”

“Aye, Captain.” Kanan gave her a simple, militaristic salute.                                              

* * *

Within the debris field that still span round Lasan, the Ghost now drifted like the rest of the rubble.  Engines running baffled and signatures altered to mimic surrounding carnage helped the illusion their ship was just another casualty of the slaughter.  If there were any probe droids, they’d be hard-pressed to spot them. …if there were any listening ships. . .well, they’d have to hope the latest encryption algorithms were up to the job…

Serene as things might have seemed from the outside, the interior of the Ghost was still a flurry of activity.  Even as she set her ship into this dangerous orbit, Hera Syndulla’s boots clanged against the Ghost’s grated hull again. Dashing to her room, she thumbed the door switch as she entered, and turned her attention to the comms even as a hydraulic hiss ensured her privacy.  Reaching over to a shelf mounted in the bulkhead of her bunk, she flipped a few switches on the archaic holo–communications system and brought a small microphone up to her lips.

“She rode the wolf, so wild and free. . . .” Hera spoke the cryptic words and waited for a response. Purrs of soft static buzzed in her headphones. She spoke again, louder.

“She rode the wolf, so wild and free.”

Time seemed to slow, in the heartbeats before the blue beam of the holoprojector hummed to life.

“ **By the light of Lothal’s moons.”**

As the familiar hooded projection coalesced from the blue blur, she found herself letting out a breath she didn’t even remember holding. Communication with Fulcrum wasn’t always so simple, but the Force was with her today, it seemed.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/153886044@N07/38522801280/in/dateposted-public/)

“ **Greetings Hera.”** the electronically distorted voice continued, **“To what do I owe this pleasure? I take it your mission went well?”**

It was certainly a strange thought - that theft, the aborted mission for Vizargo - it all seemed months ago now.  She blinked away her reflections. She had work to do.

“The A–Wings from Ayin–Resh are secured on one of their moons,” Hera confirmed, “and ready for pickup at any time - my droid will send you the coordinates shortly. You’ll just have to pick the right squad.”

 **“...you’ve something else to tell me, haven’t you?”** The rebel spymaster’s voice was neither jolly or judgemental. It was the calm quiet of lake water lapping at the shore. The hood, if it were even real as opposed to some generated image, gave no thoughts away.

“On our way we’ve passed by Lasan.” Hera said, voice controlled as she could manage.  She’d hoped Fulcrum knew of the devastation, hoped she wouldn’t have to describe what they’d seen.  At the silence, she realised there was no such luck.

“Th–The entire planet’s been devastated,” she closed her eyes, her voice lowered to barely a whisper, “the _Empire’s_ work, of course. I–It’s clear they used the B–D–Z code on the entire populace…”   
  
**“...I had seen reports that hinted at ‘a solution to the Lasan problem. That we weren’t in place to act against this tragedy,”** the hologram paused, letting out some noise the voice-scrambler turned into a peal of static, **“....this is unfortunate news to hear indeed.”**

A short silence followed in the dimly-lit cabin. Hera tried to lock away the memories of seeing lasat corpses–both young and old–crumble to dust with a mere breeze. Ashes still coated parts of her flight-suit, she remembered, and that made her skin crawl.

“But,” she forced herself to continue, “we found one. A warrior, we think - he’s barely clinging to life. We’ve got him in the Ghost, but I need to know where I can take him for proper medical attention.”

**“You need not look further than the Lothal sector.”**

“That’s almost convenient,” she replied, emotions still too rattled for diplomacy, “where?”

**“Garel.”**

“Garel?” Hera’s brow knotted, “But that’s almost as heavy with Imperial presence as Lothal itself.”

 **“...Indeed,”** Fulcrum replied, **“but unfortunately we do not have enough time to scour Rebel sympathetic worlds, especially in your new friend’s condition.”**

“You have a point…” Hera conceded.

**“Your best chance is Crossroads General Medcentre in the far Eastern quadrant, hours from Garel City. It is mostly a hospital for the city’s homeless, but many an unregistered being has been treated there.”**

“That’s good to know, but what about the Imperial presence?”

**“As good as we can hope for, given the circumstances - inspections for places the Empire consider ‘Sinkhole’ Medcentres are few and far between. There was only one instance the Empire threatened to shut it down, but an old friend of mine who works there ‘convinced’ them to leave it open.”**

Hera could almost hear the spy laughing. “So, who do I ask for?”

**“All you need to say to the admitting nurses is – “I hear all Aqualish prefer Ol’ Glazco.” That should be sufficient.”**

“Ol’ Glazco. Got it.”

“ **You will need a transport from the spaceport to the hospital - we cannot have you landing in a no-fly zone.”**

“-and draw attention to the medical centre as well as us.”

**“Precisely. I’ll put you in contact with a suitable transport - a Besalisk named Zupa Craxxsk has a ‘bakery wagon’ that should be sufficient.”**

“Thank you Fulcrum, you’ve been a lot of help.”

**“It is of no issue. I hope your lasat makes it through.”**

The message flickered off - both light and sound dying away - and Hera found herself alone in a darkened room.

“So do I,” she quietly mused to herself, “so do I…”

Wasting no time, she hurried to the cockpit where she programmed the nav–computer. As she finished calculating a course for Garel, she eased away from the devastation that had been keeping them hidden. If there were any Imperial ships nearby, neither side saw the other before the black of space became a blue tunnel.

Fast as her ship was, it would take several hours before they even reached the planet. She tried to force herself to relax, but couldn’t help but wonder - did the warrior have enough fight left in him to make this journey?

TBC


	4. Holding On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kanan and Hera face complications on their journey to the medcentre as Zeb’s condition worsens during the hyperspace travel. They struggle to keep him alive until they reach their destination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Sorry for the long wait there’s been some unavoidable real-life issues for all of us, again...there’s no set deadline for this story to be finished as nobody’s getting paid for it. It’s a group passion project. Rest assured that the last chapter for this story’s being beta read and after Story 1 is completed we’ll have a break before we begin Chapter 2, so thank you very much to all our fans for being so patient (even after the series is over, lol). 
> 
> Credit to fuzzydemolitionsquad for her exceptional writing skills and eyeloch (our beta-reader) keen eye to detail. aspiringwarriorlibrarian for her story assistance. Pictures/co-writing/story idea by DarkDranzer

**_Garazeb: Son of Lasan_ **

_Saviour - Part IV:_ **_Holding On_ **  


* * *

As the thrum of a jump to hyperspace vibrated through the Ghost, Kanan half-fell into a sitting position on the cargo hold’s cold floor. The contents of the Ghost’s medkit had now joined its shuttle’s - sprawled out all over the floor in front of him, beside the dying alien. Without even thinking, he sorted through the jumble of sterilisers, bacta patches, stym-packs and sedatives, trying to get an idea of what might help.

 _A medical scanner could have been handy,_ he reflected, only to realise that it wouldn’t have had information of treating this warrior anyway. Inconvenient data had a way of disappearing, especially if the offending device connected to the holo-net. Anything he did would be guesswork - just as likely to harm as to help. Yet second-hand pain lanced through him with every twitch and spasm the being before him went through, and he didn’t need to be a professional to realise that each lance of agony drained a little more of the soldier’s dwindling strength. A sedative was needed - the sooner the better.

He just needed one that wouldn’t stop the big guy’s heart. Or cause an allergic reaction. …no pressure, then…

Running his hand across the paltry selection in front of him, Kanan suppressed a shiver at what he was about to do. It might be a miracle he wasn’t sharing this cargo bay with a corpse already, but a single mistake and it would be on his head. Another person’s death on his conscience. Fumbling a low dose of a general sedative into a hypospray, he took a deep breath, then made his choice.

...breathing grew more shallow, heart rate slowed…

...guilt coiled within Kanan, names he’d rather forget returning to the forefront of his mind…

...but his patient’s breathing didn’t cease, and neither did his heart. No seizures took this fellow survivor. Kanan let out a breath of his own, pain rolling through him as the adrenalin faded once more. Mechanically, he found himself assessing the rest of the warrior’s wounds, rinsing the worst of the grime away with water, then spraying antiseptic around the shallower cuts.

Spots danced across Kanan’s vision as he worked, his mind and body beginning to protest their treatment during the last few hours. With fumbling fingers he secured an armband around the lasat’s forearm, tightening it so its electronics could make a guess about blood oxygen levels. Much as Kanan wanted to collapse, he still had bacta patches and foam plasters to apply.

As he pressed adhesive strips down, started the bacta’s slow release into the larger wounds, Kanan couldn’t help but wince as haemorrhaging immediately darkened the plasters on the sweat soaked fur. There didn’t seem to be anymore he could do right now - not now he was out of bacta patches.

Yet, without an immediate task to distract him, the tension pooling above his eyes returned with a vengeance and shoved him to the floor. Muscles, protesting their treatment back in that rubble-strewn world, betrayed him. Hands shook, limbs didn’t seem to listen. Pain feasted on him, mind and body, and his vision blurred to noise...

...as he lay there, heat pounding through his brain, he felt the Force once more. His hated friend had come back so naturally to him, guided him amongst the dead and dying. As much as he tried to suppress those talents that painted a target on his back, the Force had flooded him. And now he was paying the cost. Like an overworked muscle, his mind now protested even the slightest motion, the merest thought.

Despite the hum of the universe pressing in close to him, trying to guide him once more, he doubted he could grasp it right now - even if he _wanted_ to. Disgust welled up, as some semblance of thought returned to him. Had he even been himself in these last few hours, or just the Force’s tool? Or perhaps he’d been a puppet of a kid’s desires for heroism, heedless of the danger even a slight awakening of the Force could bring...

...and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to say he’d done the wrong thing. Saving this life (or so he hoped, at least) wasn’t something he could disagree with. Even if, even if…

...as he got his muscles back under control, Kanan shook away the lingering thoughts. With the wall’s help, he got back on his feet and hobbled his way to the ladder - steps gradually growing more sure, despite his senses still echoing with phantom sensations.

They might have been short on pretty much everything, but he was fairly sure there must be a few more medical odds and ends hiding in this ship. That idea gave him just enough motivation to haul himself up the cargo ladder, rung by rung. Looking for them might at least keep his fears at bay for a while.

As he reached the top of the ladder, he hauled himself onto his feet once more. Glancing down, his gut churned again at the sight of the ash his hands had smeared on the deck. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his temples - he’d seen enough of burnt things for several lifetimes, even _if_ he only counted today.

Hissing air through his teeth, Kanan forced his eyes back open. Forced his mind back onto the task at hand. He’d certainly scrubbed down the cockpit and lounge enough times in the past to know his captain kept a clean, uncluttered ship - stuff like bacta wasn’t something she’d let you just leave lying around. No, everything had its place here - spare parts had their boxes, cargo had it’s bay, secrets had her cabin...

...the galley, at least, was his domain - but its antibacterial sprays weren’t really very suitable for skin, let alone open wounds! In short, he realised, the only chance of finding any other medical supplies was–

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/153886044@N07/29468069958/in/dateposted-public/)

_“Ouch!!”_

Something cold collided with his shins. Hard. A metallic clang (and a loud, electronic huff) hit his tired brain, just as it connected the usual dots - Chopper was underfoot. Literally.

His addled mind was far too hazy to register much beyond the newest source of pain, and the indignant buzzing coming from that general direction. Chopper’s antics could give anybody a headache, and his didn’t need _more_ encouragement!

“Listen, Chopper,” he groaned, while trying to rub his battered shin, “it was was an honest mistake-”

“Wub-waah-wub-wub wardoo” ( _Mutiny will not be tolerated on ship;Ghost_ ,’) the rustbucket shot back, “Warra-whap-wop-whamp-wamp-wub-ward––” (‘ _Betrayal of crew;Ghost will result in immediate termination by vacuum–)_

 _“_ It was an honest mistake,” Kanan interrupted, “look, I don’t have time for this, not today.”

 _“Waaah-waah-wub-wado-wubba-_ waddo _-waddah!!” (C1-10P_ _fulfilling vital orders from Syndulla2.0,_ unlike _DrunkenHuman_!!) Chopper grumbled testily, emphasising his point by sharply prodding a surprised Kanan with his spark projector. The human had to breath a sigh of relief when the droid didn’t activate it.

“...actually keeping the guy alive isn’t _vital_ to your faulty logic circuits?”

Turning his back on the still-protesting astromech, Kanan thumbed the door release to the other (and, for the next few hours, only) storage room. For a few seconds, he let the room’s darkness ease the strain on his brain, before his hands found the light switch. Even despite the aches and pains, he’d still much rather work than think. Especially with a life on the line.

As cabin lights hummed into life, he involuntarily shut his eyes at the brightness. Forcing them open, Kanan squinted at the jumble of boxes and bundles strewn about the room. Hera might like to keep a neat ship, but odd bits of clutter were inevitable - especially given their lifestyle - and those bits of junk usually found themselves in this drab little room. Hera sometimes seemed to have an aversion to colour on the walls of her ship - as if a painted bulkhead was no different than a stained one. Personally, he’d enjoy a little more vibrancy around the place.

With a quiet groan, Kanan set himself to work. Pulling open the nearest few containers, he quickly began to unpack them. Spare towels, damaged datapads, random bags full of various currencies…

...shifting aside the remains of a mouse droid that Chopper had once dismembered and left by Hera’s bed like a present, Kanan’s hand brushed something foil-like. Hurriedly pulling what he hoped to be bacta patch free, he almost smiled, before he got a good look at what turned out to be an old ration pack. False hope. As he scowled down at the offending lump of foil-wrapped mush, the slight hiss of the door release (and a low grumble of binary) gave him an outlet for his frustrations - “accidently” tossing the pack over his shoulder. As he heard a soft thump, then a furious, electronic blat from a certain orange astromech, Kanan did smile. For a moment, anyway.

Shifting aside a vacuum-sealed crate of undercover outfits, he pulled yet another box towards him. Stage makeup seemingly filled this one - actual stage makeup, taken from a safehouse under a theatre, if he remembered that disaster of a mission correctly. They’d both needed patching up after that one… _Wait_ . They’d _both_ needed patching up.

Shoving the various bottles and palettes out of the box as fast has he could, Kanan quickly got his hands on what he’d been hoping for. It wasn’t much - just another bacta patch or three, some heating/cooling pads and other irrelevant bits and pieces - but it was more he could work with. Another few seconds of life he could give the warrior.

Box in hand, he jumped back to his feet. Swaying slightly as blood rushed to his head, he walked back to the ladder as quickly as he dared. With a clear purpose, he could almost ignore the aches of body and mind - as survivors went, the one just below him was in far worse shape than he was!

As he reached the cargo bay, he fell into a sitting position once more. With his legs no longer protesting, Kanan turned the box upside down into the pile of remaining supplies. As a stray tube of lipstick rolled away, he got his hands on the bacta patches and shifted closer to the lasat. Pulling the first patch out of its wrapper, he placed it down on the charred and blistered mess of flesh that made up the now-beardless side of his face. It was a good thing he rinsed the burns before he shoved the patch down - he’d mucked that up once, back before he was Kanan Jarrus...

...like a dam bursting, his foggy memories of jedi emergency medical training came back to him like yesterday’s news. He’d usually been partnered with a funny Mirialan boy, Ulliam Norte, who’d wrap him up in so many bandages that he looked like some sort of ancient mummy. He couldn’t help but smile, despite himself, at that memory of simpler times.

The brief moment of mirth was interrupted by pain. The second-hand variety, chewing at him through the Force. Looking over at the lasat, it was instantly clear the soldier was gripped by a painful spasm. The carefully placed plasters and patches on his body threatened to tear - to the point Kanan considered giving him another pump of sedative, despite the risk. Lucky for both of them, though, the lasat’s body relaxed - preventing any further damage.

 _‘Just a subconscious reflex…’_ Kanan mused, rubbing the back of his neck – unnerved once again by the lasat’s actions. He wasn’t a doctor, or even a field medic. His formal training stopped when he was packed off to the battlefield, his informal training was mostly self-taught patching up after particularly nasty bar fights...

With a deep breath or two, Kanan felt his courage return to him. Gingerly, he felt around the lasat’s throat, his shaking fingertips halting beneath the lobe of the alien ear. There, thank the Force, he felt a faint pulse. Kanan frowned, relief cut short, as he heard the familiar sound of fluid bubbling while the survivor drew another shallow breath. He may not have known anything about lasat anatomy, but he knew a collapsed lung when he heard it.

Tracing his fingers down from the alien’s shoulder, Kanan squinted at the sensor he’d managed to strap across the less damaged arm. Frowning, he blinked when he saw the glowing numbers on the screen, as if he hoped the blood/oxygen reading was somehow a trick of the light. It wasn’t. The blood/oxygen content was low; much too low for _any_ mammal to survive on. Frustrated, Kanan let out a wordless groan - this guy needed a proper medic, not some panicky, half-delusional gunslinger.

He didn’t know how long the lasat had. Just sitting there, wordlessly, Kanan wasn’t certain he’d ever felt more useless. He wanted to help, he needed to help, but he’d done all he could. He’d patched the wounds, best as he was able. He’d got the breathing apparatus pumping highly oxygenated air into the soldier’s failing lungs. But he knew it wasn’t enough - even if he shut his eyes to the readings, he could _feel_ the battered body in front of him shutting down...

_‘Kriff...Hera, hurry up.’_

It was a useless thought, really - the _Ghost_ was Hera’s darling, tinkered and tuned to perfection long before he’d ever entered the picture. She’d know what she was doing. Still though, Hera remained in the upper part of the ship, no doubt conversing with her mysterious contact again. Kanan sniffed, wiped the fresh sheen of sweat from his brow, and tried to swallow down his misgivings. He and Hera were both equally embroiled in the fight against the Empire.

Weren’t they?

Regardless of whoever her _friend_ really was, Hera would undoubtedly be asking them about a safe place to bring the alien. Despite his usual misgivings, with a life on the line, Kanan felt he should trust whoever Hera did. He _should_ trust them, anyway...

Neither of them had known quite what they’d be flying into, on their spur-of-the-moment scheme. Seeking treasure–especially living treasure–in the graveyard Lasan had become, seemed abhorrent. Finding treasure, impossible. Was it desperation that’d tugged them there, or the Force pulling on his puppet strings once more? Despite that madness, _because_ of that madness, a flicker of hope lay in front of Kanan. He’d taken unplanned risks, made stupid choices, yet couldn’t quite bring himself to entirely regret what he’d done. Not while he had proof it might have been worth it lying right in front of him. A survivor, a _fellow_ survivor had been saved, each shallow breath drawn in defiance of the Empire.

Massaging his temples, as if he could rub the introspection away, Kanan turned to Chopper. The droid lingered nearby, hissing static and rotating his dome from side to side, as if to convey his annoyance of the lasat’s distracting presence.

“We should get him upstairs, into the cleaned cabin.” Kanan said. “You _did_ clean it. . . didn’t you?”

“Whaaarrr….” Chopper droned affirmatively.

“Good, good…” The man nodded, stroking his goatee while his eyes remained glued on the prone lasat, “...do you think you can get him in there?”

“Whoo-waddu woo?” Chopper warbled sardonically. After all, how was a small droid like him supposed to carry a large, half-dead lasat upstairs?

“I didn’t mean by yourself,” Kanan said, through clenched teeth, “honestly Chop, you always think the worst of pe-”

He was cut off when the lasat convulsed again. This time, a blast of bloody mist spattered the inside of the rebreather mask.

That was when Kanan began to panic.

“Kriff!” The man’s shaking hands tugged at the mask, “Kriff, kriff, _kriff!”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/153886044@N07/28469037007/in/dateposted-public/)

After a few failed attempts, he was successful in tearing it off the lasat’s face. Hot, slippery blood ran in rivulets between the former padawan’s fingers. Holding his breath, Kanan tried his best to stop himself from hyperventilating. His eyes widened as horror and a grim realisation slowly took hold.

_‘H-He’s not going to make it…’_

Kanan’s heart froze, and time stopped.

He knew the feeling of someone’s life ending, the exact moment of it. Like wisps of warm silk, gently flowing through his fingers to join the Force. An incredible cold remained afterward, leaving him begging for the warmth to return.

His numb mind managed to create–in bold, heart-wrenching detail–images of the three people he couldn’t save. Those who helped shape his life to what it was, helped give him the purpose he was searching for, filled his mind with grief. There was the unbalanced Skelly, the veteran who took down a cybernetic madman and died a hero. Old Okadiah Garson, a man who was more father than friend. He’d helped Kanan when he needed it most, given him a job. . .doling out honest and straightforward advice, always lending a listening ear...

...and then there was Depa Bilaba, his own master, who’d helped teach him so much of the Force and life itself, before her own was tragically cut short. With her murder came the brutal end to both his training and all his former dreams–betrayed by the men who they once fought beside and considered friends, even brothers. These ‘friends’ slaughtered every jedi in the temple, including the younglings, without a second thought. Friends who grew up with him, who’d become as close as siblings. Friends he’d hoped to fight alongside (or at the very least exchange light-hearted banter with, if they could snatch a few shared moments away from the conflict).

He knew what all those deaths had in common. He had ample chances to save them, but never seized upon it. Caleb Dume had instead watched helplessly as each of them died in turn.

Was that to be the fate of this lasat too? Even Hera, eventually?

...Okadiah told him to marry that girl. He’d never taken those parting lines seriously, yet he still liked to entertain thoughts of being with her for the rest of his life. ‘ _You’re a dreamer.’_ He often told himself - imagining stability, even though his life was an ever-constant uncertainty. He was a wanted fugitive of the Empire, had been ever since he was a naive kid. Even now, Kanan had to wonder if it was his curse to wander around aimlessly, watching everyone he dared care for die senseless deaths?

 _‘No.’_ came a voice. His voice.

With a rush of determination, Kanan shook the doubts from his head. It did him no good to fixate on the deaths of those he couldn’t save; it was too late for them. But it wasn’t too late for _him_ \- the warrior he sat beside needed Kanan’s strength, now more than ever. He had the chance to help someone, a survivor, like himself.

Closing his eyes, Kanan refocused his energies and stretched out his hand. He imagined himself fishing for the warm silken fabric of the force which had slipped through his fingers, his feelings of helplessness slowly ebbed away, replaced with a calm resolve. He _refused_ to let it happen this time. The Force would not claim this soul now.

He would make _sure_ of that.

Kanan knelt over the alien and grasped his hand firmly. The giant’s fingers were stiff, curled in toward the palm like the legs of a dead arach. Still, there was some warmth amongst the clammy sweat of his fingerpads.

“Don’t know if you can hear me but, c’mon big guy. You’ve made it this far. Just hold on for a little bit longer…” he turned to the small droid behind him, “Chopper!”

The droid blupped.

“Wash this out. Get all the blood out of the tube!” Kanan threw the rebreather at Chopper’s ‘feet’.

“Warrb-warb wadda whuuur!!!” Chopper protested, insulted that Kanan was ordering him around like a mere maintenance droid.

Kanan’s brows arched as he shot the droid a piercing glare. The battered droid wisely backed up.

“ _Now_ Chopper!” Kanan barked.

The squat astromech jerked at the authoritative tone in Kanan’s voice, and in a rare display of obedience, snatched up the mask and wheeled out of the room. Not even his characteristic grumbling could be heard.

“Kriff Hera!” Kanan yelled, knowing the communicator would pick him up. “You got a bead on the nearest med-center?”

Soft static cooed over the communicator.

“Yes. It’s on Garel – Crossroads General Medcentre.” Hera’s voice shot back. “We’re only one jump away, once we drop out of hyperspace.”

 _‘Is he going to make it?’_ Her unspoken question hung across the comlink.

Instead of answering, Kanan crawled behind the lasat and cradled his heavy upper body. He called the force back to himself with calm intakes of breath, feeling the living power of it charge all of the cells in his body. Straightening his posture, Kanan took the lasat’s shoulders into his hands and let the Force flow through the stranger too. The lasat’s jaw muscles tensed, causing the thick, sinewy cords in his neck to do as well. A thick spate of blood rushed from his left nostril.

This time Kanan was calm, his mind clear for the first time since the rush to Lasan. He tugged the unconscious lasat’s pinched nasal fold away from the corner of his mouth, diverting the flow of blood away from his throat and into his beard. The lasat gulped like a fish and sucked in a hearty draught of life-sustaining oxygen.

“You’re doing good big guy...keep going...” Kanan felt a smile pull at his lips.

He felt the sharp vibes of agony emanating from the lasat begin to recede, felt them settling back into the duller throbs of pain. With fast but gentle movements, he reached for the sterilized towel in the med kit.

“Warba-roo-rada”

Kanan turned and saw the cantankerous droid returned with the cleaned mask.

“Thanks Chop, you’re a lifesaver.” He gave the old droid a rare smile. Kanan might not have been able to tell what the droid was thinking, but he was certain he embarrassed him. Stifling his chuckle at the image of a blushing droid, he gently put the mask on the alien’s face.

“You’re doing good.” He dabbed the alien’s sweat-soaked brow with the sterilized towel, trying to reduce the fever beginning to take hold. “I know you’re tired...we may not know each other, but I know a warrior when I see one. You have to keep fighting...don’t let those Imperial bastards win...”

Kanan closed his eyes again and felt the sting and warmth of his tears. He heard the Ghost’s sub-light engines whine, felt the old ship shudder as she prepared to warp the unfathomable realities of of time and space. In his mind, he saw a shoal of blue and white hyperspace sprites coming at him. Infinite measures of galaxy flowed freely around the little freighter.

He called upon a technique his master had been teaching him. He hadn’t enough time to practice it and truthfully, wasn’t very good at it and he never imagined ever getting the chance to do it. But now was not the time for doubt. He had to try and do something to save the lasat. Skilled or unskilled, Kanan knew the lasat needed help right now if he was to survive the long journey.

“Hate to break it to you, big guy,” he spoke, as much to ease his own fears as anything, “but as you can probably tell, I’m no surgeon. . .don’t know anything about what’s inside a lasat, but I _do_ know a few tricks that might ease some of your pain.”

Rolling up his sleeves, Kanan slapped his hands together and rubbed his palms. He might be exhausted, physically and mentally, but he inhaled and exhaled through his nose, cancelling out all sounds around the ship, silencing the doubt in his mind. He chose this connection, chose this path.

Resolve suddenly sure, Kanan concentrated on the lasat. With the universe flowing through him, the ship disappeared. There was nothing now - just the Force, and these two lives floating within it. Without the Ghost’s metal skin, a deep black vacuum surrounded them, shot throughout with a spattering of twinkling stars.

_‘We’re a part of this galaxy, you and I. We can’t let the Empire tell us different.’_

There was, however, something of a problem. Kanan might be able to all but feel the movement of blood through the survivor's body, but he had no idea what the internal organs, muscle tissue and nerves even looked like. All the lasat he had seen before this one were burned to unrecognizable husks. Without any idea of what things _should_ be like, healing quickly went from difficult to impossible...

His eyes quickly scanned over the lasat’s body. There might be nothing _he_ could do about the lasat’s internal injuries (or the severe burns that marked his flesh), but he could focus on the numerous surface wounds. He hoped.

_‘Here goes nothing...hopefully this will buy us some time…’_

His hands hovered over the lasat’s body. In his mind’s eye, he saw a striped map of pale lavender skin, its smooth-furred surface slashed and pitted with large bleeding rends and flesh-mangling pockets of shrapnel. There were deep black hematomas–the size of Kanan’s head–all over the lasat’s arms and legs, as well as patches of flayed hide, revealing thin layers of fat and the muscle beneath. Death by a thousand cuts–as if the larger wounds weren’t enough to kill someone!

Kanan’s brow furrowed. He concentrated on each horrific wound in turn. A wellspring of the living force flowed from deep within him, down his arms and through the tips of his fingers. Years ago, minutes ago, he would have resented this familiar tingle. Yet, right now, the power behind it was welcomed. He hated to admit it, but the force did come in handy. Once in awhile.

Chopper warbled and cooed almost inquisitively as he saw large gashes and bruises begin to shrink in size. Transparent layers of tissue unfurled across the skinless surface wounds, thickening and becoming more opaque as the lasat began to heal. The droid seemed to gasp when tiny hairs began to sprout, atop the new skin.

Kanan was almost as surprised with his work as the droid, truth be told. As tiring as this was though, the feel of invigorating cells and encouraging them to heal was almost blissful. Life clung a little tighter to the body in front of him. Still though, it wasn’t enough—in a bout of overconfidence, he tried to push himself further. To go beneath the skin, to heal the more serious injuries.

...a mental scream, from himself or the lasat, seemed to show the answer. His focus wavering, Kanan felt dizzy and strained - even more than before he’d started. Loosing a slight grumble, he could imagine Depa chiding him from the back of his mind. Just because he could _do_ something doesn’t make him an expert.

He’d done all he could, for now. He needed to let go.

With a short gasp, Kanan opened his eyes. His shirt was soaked with perspiration and his hands were shaking, from both exhilaration and stress. But the wounds, save a few missed surface scratches, were all gone. Kanan smiled, relieved at his work...it was the first time he felt proud of himself in quite some time. It was also the first time in a while he felt the force was a blessing rather than an inescapable curse.

He gazed on the lasat’s body—with the skin healed he had prevented excess blood loss and (he hoped) infection. Judging by the more peaceful expression on the lasat’s face, he’d made him slightly more comfortable. He looked it anyway.

Kanan’s smile fell as he heard the persistent wet gurgle continue with each breath taken...though that’d be a task for the skilled surgeons on Garel to look at. He could take solace in what he had done.

He tried to stand, but his exhaustion made his knees buckle. He wobbled and collapsed on top of Chopper—who responded to this frightening ‘attack’ by shocking him (and cursing in binary).

“Yargh!!” Kanan yelped, jumping back, “Kriff it Chop! What are you doing?!!”

The embarrassed droid warbled something insulting as Kanan steadied himself, huffing as he let go of the droid’s head.

The former padawan continued to feel dizzy and weak. It was then that he realized his tapping of the force–not to mention skipping breakfast–had drained both his body and his mind. His blood sugar plummeted and his belly growled. He needed food, sooner the better.

Kanan looked down at the lasat. He was satisfied that their new guest was stable enough to be transported to the second level where his temporary ‘medcentre ward’ waited.

His stomach, like Chopper, cared little for lasat and continued to remind him of more important things. With a irritated moan, Kanan turned to Chopper who was looming over the lasat’s head, glowering as best as a droid could manage.

“Stay with him Chop. I’m gonna grab something to eat then I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything. . . funny.”

“Wah, wah wahhh. . .” Dipping backwards, Chopper raised his middle prong.

Laughing, Kanan made a fast track to the mess - hoping to grab a few ration bars hiding in the back of the cabinet. With fumbling hands, clumsy from exhaustion, he pulled what supplies remained down to the counter. A half a blink later, and he’d already unwrapped two of the bars. Half a minute later, and he’d quickly devoured most of all five remaining bars– making a mental note to get more on their next ‘milk run’– already racing back downstairs, where Chopper was standing over the lasat, prodding him.

“Chop, if you shock him I’m throwing you out of the airlock.” Kanan threatened, somewhat muffled by the masticated wad of ration bar in his cheek.

The little astromech warbled in disgust, but Kanan paid him no mind. The food and his first successful use of basic force-healing had more than helped to reinvigorate him.

Rubbing his hands, he gripped the smooth handles of the stretcher. He spread his feet, grounding himself, and felt the force permeate his soles. It flowed up through his calves and thighs, into his trunk and radiated out into his arms. He lifted the stretcher effortlessly, as if twenty or so invisible hands were aiding him.

The stretcher rose until it was level with the railing. Kanan leapt over it and guided the lasat toward the corridor. He met Hera who was standing beside one of their vacant rooms. She wore upon her face a familiar crooked smile, a smile Kanan greatly loved. It said, ‘I’m worried, but I have faith that we can handle this together.’

Despite her gentle smile, Hera revealed her worry in the way she slammed her palm against the door control panel. In the flick of her eyes as the portal opened with a hydraulic hiss. In other little ways besides. Kanan didn’t comment, as he helped manoeuvre the lasat inside.

The twin bunks, which lay at the far end of the room, reeked of disinfectant, causing both Kanan and Hera’s noses to twitch and their eyes to water. It seemed Chopper was aware of the fact that lasat emitted a strong musk. Kanan sneezed, then looked down at the prone lasat and for once, envied his comatose-like state!

Chopper had made his opinions on the smell of most organics–humans and twi’leks included–very, very clear over the time Kanan had spent on the Ghost, but it seemed the scent that lasat produced was even more intolerable. Electronic whines and buzzes repeated what he’d already told each of them - this sort of organic made his olfactory sensors feel like they were overloaded or malfunctioning, and so he had taken suitably drastic measures to mask the scent.

“Ugh...dunno what smells worse, this guy or the deodoriser Chopper used…” Kanan said, waving his hand in front of his nose.

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll just leave the door open. I’m sure the back-up filters will help clear the air.” Hera sniffled. “Let’s get him in bed.”

Kanan removed the stretcher and set the alien down in the lower bunk. Noticed a fresh patch of blood spreading across the bandaged chest wound, he placed his hands against it, putting as much pressure on it as he dared - hoping he wasn’t damaging the patient further.

He grunted as he propped the giant alien onto the only pillows they could procure, taking extra caution not to make his injuries even worse.

“There, that’s good” he grunted “I think the upright position will help him breathe better. Should the lights be on or off?”

Hera thought for a second. “Off. The dark might be good for him. It should help calm him down, at least until we can get to the medcentre.”

“I think he might be in a coma, but I can feel that he’s in great pain.” Kanan turned to her. “I gotta admit, it’s gonna be an uphill battle for him.”

Hera looked at the mess of bloody bandages covering the large alien. She rubbed her chin. “We have to be positive.”

She took a step back and bumped into Chopper (somehow _looming_ , despite the height difference).

“Great! Just who I wanted to see. Listen, I need you to contact that ‘bakery’ on Garel. Call their droid and ask it if they have an extra large box for the ‘cake’. Custom-cake.” She hastily added.

Kanan took his eyes off the lasat for a split-second and eyed the droid, who clearly understood the reason for the false transmission.

Chopper issued a crude, binary raspberry and zipped away to the cockpit, grumbling expletives in binary. Hera chuckled to herself. She knew the role of courier was beneath a droid of Chopper’s design, but they needed make sure all their tracks were covered. Any confrontation with the Empire at this stage would be disastrous.

* * *

 

Kanan joined Hera in the cockpit. He stood behind her, rubbing his hands vigorously with a nubby towel from the fresher. He’d washed his hands–twice–but still couldn’t seem to get the smell of the lasat’s blood off them.

“Anything I can help you with?” he asked as he made his way to the co-pilot’s chair, still wiping his damp hands on his pants.

“No, just let me do all the talking, alright?”

Briefly glancing towards him, Hera noticed his odd look, and turned to look him in the eye.

Kanan tried to smile. “...I think I could chat with your cont-”

“-We’ve been through this before, Kanan,” she admonished him, “we can’t afford to make any errors for a mission as delicate as this. One wrong move and everything we’ve worked for – saving this life, and keeping ours – would have been for nothing.”

Kanan grumbled but didn’t protest any further as he flopped into the co-pilot’s chair. Watching as Hera fluidly flicked on all the scrambling systems and Chopper grumbled his way through connecting the call to the bakery, he tried to calm his doubts.

He almost jumped when the Ghost’s communicator pinged - reflexively, he looked at Hera, his eyes filling with worry. She smiled at him reassuringly and answered the hailing signal, effortlessly shifting her expression and posture to suggest a more jovial and upbeat lady.

“Jumay Ayox,” she almost _sang_ in greeting, “party planner extraordinaire speaking. ”

“Ah ha! Just the girl I wanted to talk to.” Came the equally upbeat–albeit gruffer–reply. “This is Zupa, chief baker at Phondant Phantasy. You’re hard to track down sweetheart. If it wasn’t for your droid...”

Tiny laugh lines appeared at the corners of Hera’s eyes. She immediately recognized the gruff, masculine voice. “I know, I know, Zoop. I’m sorry. This is a busy time for me. It seems everyone is having a party these days, thanks to the prosperity the glorious Empire has brought its citizens.”

Kanan stuck his finger down his throat and made soft gagging noises. Hera smacked his thigh and he wisely held his tongue.

“Isn’t that the truth.” The man on the other communicator all-but-growled. For handful of heartbeats, it sounded like the man was ruminating over a recent bad experience and let bitter anger push through his charade.

Then, without so much as a flinch, both his tone and subject changed.

“Never thought I’d hear your lovely voice again. Still with that scruffy drunkard?”

“Scruffy?” Kanan hissed, glared at the speaker. “Who’s this moof-brain calling sc. . .”

Hera shushed him with a finger to her lips.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/153886044@N07/29468064848/in/dateposted-public/)

“Oh yes, I’m still with him. He’s all a woman could ask for. Handsome, debonaire. Loves his mother and kid sister. Sends them credits every cycle.” She fluttered her eyelashes at Kanan and his tan cheeks flushed. “He’s actually cleaned up since last time I spoke to you.”

“Really?”

“No joke.. And let me tell you, he really cleans up nice.”

“As long as he makes you happy, I’m good with him. So, made up your mind on your order? Gotta tell ya, the back of the bakery’s really full right now, but I think I might have space for your custom order. How big of a box do you think you’ll need?”

Kanan rose an eyebrow. It was clear that Hera was no stranger to this unusual code-speak, and he _had_ figured out what her and the man were expertly conveying, but something irked him. This was rebel talk. He had known Hera for quite a while now, trusted her with more than anyone else. He’d hoped she would’ve revealed some of what she was doing for this ‘Rebellion’ he kept hearing about, by now. At least a little.

Hera laughed musically. “Darling, I told you I’m planning a coming-out party for a friend. They’re having a party with their colleagues before organising the family gathering. Are you getting forgetful in your age?”

“Well the bakery business is stressful these days, hon.”

“I’ll bet. Anyway...it’s a big deal to them and unfortunately the party isn’t going to be a breeze.”

Hera paused, listening to a long drawn out sigh from the baker. She didn’t let it show, but Kanan was certain she felt guilty for adding more to his plate. Still, she wouldn’t be so focused unless she knew he was more than qualified for the job.

“Alright, got my holopad here.” Zupa’s tone became terser, as he put on his professional front. “You know the drill - what flavour of cake would your friend like? Cream? Frosting? Also, need to know the box size.”

Hera tapped her own holopad with her stylus, exaggerating a thoughtful look.

“Now let me see, the cake size is, oh what did I say. . . seven feet by four feet wide. It’ll need a big box.”

“Just so happens I’ve got one that will work perfectly.”

“Excellent - also the cake flavour’s going to be violet sapina, cream is egg jellycream and the frosting’s silver starblossom.”

There was a pause on the other line as the Besalask frantically wrote down his instructions.

“Right. I think I’ve got it in order, violet sapina cake, egg-jelly cream and silver starblossom icing?” He muttered as he wrote. “What kind of palate would they have?”

“Sweet and savoury, like the fruit.”

A few flicks of the stylus later, and he was done. “I’ve got that all down, ’May.”

“So how long will the order take? I know this is sudden-”

He cut her off with a chuckle. “Not to worry, I believe I can squeeze one of my favourite customers to a few hours.”

“You do? Oh Zupa, that’s great news!” Suddenly, Hera’s tone was woeful. “It just occurred to me that I forgot the directions to Phondant Phantasy.”

Zupa’s laugh boomed through the communicator

“Oh Jumay, and you say my memory’s bad. Too much work can make you loopy. Trust me, I know. When you get into ‘town’ on the main drag, turn right when you see the building with the orange roof. ”

“Oh that’s right, Pappy Pumbo’s fried nuna and polygon waffles!” Hera’s eyes lit up as she recalled the place from a previous mission “Now, let’s see if I get this right...I go a little further until I get on a roundabout and you are right there in the cul-de-sac next to the underwater furniture store.”

“See? You do remember! Come around back. I’ve got two new bakers. I’ll tell them to meet you on the loading dock. Be on the lookout for two Cathars - their names’re Condu and Josina.”

“You’re a life-saver Zupa, thanks.”

“You’re right there, darlin’.”

Hera winced at the possible slip. It was no matter. If the empire was listening, they would have no idea which planet they were talking about.

“Hey, has the town gotten rid of that nasty ‘rat’ infestation they had last month?”

Kanan smiled. He was starting to figure things out and knew exactly what she was getting at.

“Oh the infestation is gone. Occasionally we’ll see one or two of them. Can’t be helped. I’ll talk to you later ‘May. Just got an urgent call. Probably my wife saying she burnt my dinner and wants me to take her out.”

“Ok Zoop, bye. Good luck.”

Hera signed out, her smile growing tenser as she dropped her act. Fiddling with the Ghost’s nav-computer, she scowled as she shifted their course through hyperspace, shaving a few more seconds off their journey.

“Hope this ride won’t be too bumpy,” Kanan teased, despite himself. Hera only offered a wan smile in response.

Suddenly, a guttural cry from behind them made both Kanan and Hera’s heads whip around.

“Just in time.” Kanan muttered under his breath, as he ran to the lasat’s makeshift bedroom just as the Ghost made the jump. Chopper, already speeding toward the room, spewed a stream of disgruntled droid-speak.

“Hold on,” Hera called as she leapt from the pilot’s seat, “I’m coming with you!”

“Good,” Kanan replied, voice now deadly serious, “I’m gonna need some company.”

* * *

 

They entered the room to find the lasat shivering and moaning. Sweat droplets the size of pebbles streamed from his face, flying in all directions whenever he tried to shake his head. Strange words passed through his lips, telling both Kanan and Hera that their patient was having some sort of fever dream.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/153886044@N07/42620721564/in/dateposted-public/)

“I’ll flash freeze some water using the Ghost’s coolant.” Hera said, rushing to get a bucket. Kanan nodded.

“I’ll try to patch the leaks again.”

Bright blood stained through the bandages Kanan had used to patch several of the larger wounds. Thin trickles of from the horrific burn on the warrior’s face where–in his fevered thrashing–he had torn away some of the charred flesh. Even Chopper seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation, barely grumbling as he sped back into the room with a small box of additional bacta patches.

Kanan fought to be calm, but his hands still fumbled and shook when he unwrapped these new bacta patches and pressed them against the worst of the lasat’s leaking wounds.

Hera, sprinting back and forth, tossed chunks of steaming cold ice into a plastic bag and beat the bag with a heavy spanner wrench. Barely stopping to breathe, she poured the now-smaller fragments into a bucket, hauling it back to to the cabin. As she dropped the heavy bucket down beside him, Kanan started. Blinking, Hera saw Kanan standing there with an exhausted look on his face and an unsealed bacta patch in his hands. Some of the alien’s wounds seemed new - like healed flesh had torn, while in other places, patches of skin looked almost healthy. Crusty bandages, made from torn strips of his shirt, were piled around Kanan’s feet.

As she drew closer, Hera intentionally brushed past Kanan. Unlike normal, he barely seemed to notice - just blinking slightly, before looking at their patient’s wounds again. Following his lead, she took a good look as she placed the bucket down. Scooping two handfuls of ice from it, she began to pack it around the lasat’s head.

“Yeah. . .I’m still drained from the last few hours.” Kanan finally mumbled back. “I think I overdid it today. . .I don’t know how much I even helped him...”

Hera put a hand on the former padawan’s shoulder. “It’s okay, love. Every little bit helps. You probably gave him more time.”

Rubbing his forehead, Kanan made a small assenting noise. “See a place where this should go?”

“Um, well I know you are probably hesitant to touch it, but that place on his stomach where the metal piece is protruding is streaming blood pretty fast.” Hera looked at him with empathetic eyes. “If you split the patch lengthwise, you can wrap it around the metal and still have enough patch to cover the skin.”

At Kanan’s nervous look, Hera pried the patch from his fingers and did as she had explained. Splitting then wrapping the patch, taking care not to push on the offending object deeper into the lasat’s body. By the time she was finished, there was a neatly wrapped hunk of metal and bandage that securely sealed the wound. Before their eyes, the steady release of bacta staunched the still-escaping blood to a slow trickle.

“Lady,” Kanan smiled at her, “you’d have made one hell of a nurse.”

Hera bowed. “And you sir, would have made one hell of a nursemaid.”

Kanan rubbed the back of his neck, while he tightened a clean bandage on the lasat’s arm. “Ha ha, very funny-”

Suddenly, the lasat's arm flew up like a trebuchet, his clenched fist slamming Kanan square beneath the jaw. It was an involuntary response, albeit one that rattled Kanan’s teeth! He went down hard, too tired to twist himself into a softer fall in time. His face smashed against the hard metal floor grate.

“...anan!” He heard Hera crying out, distantly.

For a moment, it was like he couldn’t quite feel the pain - like the cool metal of the floor had taken his headache away too.

“Wahh wahh!” Chopper laughed.

And the pain returned. Worse than before. Still, by forcing his eyes open, he was rewarded by the sight of Hera tapping the misanthropic droid firmly on his dome.

“Chopper!!” she scolded with a firm glare

“Bwahhhhh.” He apologised. Insincerely.

She knelt before Kanan and reached out a hand, helping him to sit up. He didn’t miss the wince when she saw his face.

“Oh blast,” she exclaimed, moments later, “your nose is bleeding.”

Kanan swiped at his nostrils and looked at his hand. There was a smear of red down the length of his finger.

“Greaaaat. More blood. I’m starting to love the stuff.”

“Not funny.” Hera wagged a finger in his face. “Hold on, I’m going to get you a wet towel from the fresher.”

Kanan shook his head. He grabbed his lower jaw and moved it from side to side.

“I’m okay. The bleeding’s stopping.”

“How do you feel otherwise?”

“Brain’s a little rattled, that’s about it.” He looked over to the lasat, still squirming in his bunk. “I’m not mad at the big guy. I know it wasn’t his fault, but damn, does he have a mean left hook.”

Hera almost smiled at that, before she looked down to check her chrono. Pursing her lips, she got back to her feet.

“We got about five more minutes till we reach Garel.” She explained, while pulling down her sleeve. As she started piling more ice on top of the lasat, the translucent chunks melted like butter in a hot skillet.

“If he hasn’t got a fever, I think he’s developing one,” she muttered, “I should get more ice. Keep his brain from boiling. ”

Kanan nodded. “I wish there was something we could have done about his internal injuries. He’s gotta be all pulp and shattered bones inside. At least he’s still breathing. I don’t know how, but he is.”

“It probably has to do with biology.” Hera said, shrugging. “I’ve known beings who can freeze themselves solid and live. Ones who walk through fire and ones who hibernate for ten years without waking for food or water. This guy’s species obviously handles pain and life-threatening injuries better than you or I could.”

Kanan nodded along as he slowly lowered himself onto the bunk, settling next to the lasat. Carefully, so as not to startle his patient in his sleep, Kanan made himself comfortable.

“You get the ice,” he replied to her unasked question, “I’ll stay with him.”

“Right.” Hera agreed.

The sound of squeaky wheels diverted his eyes from Hera, who was out of the doorway - it seemed Chopper had recovered from Hera’s scolding. The droid wheeled up to Kanan and spun around once, chattering in his screechy way.

“Bwa bwa ga eh wop naw. . .”

“Is he talking about Garel?”

“You’re getting pretty good.” Hera half-smiled as she returned, passing him the refilled ice bucket. For a split second, the back of her glove brushed against his hand-

-a sudden shudder, as the Ghost returned to realspace, killed the moment. A few stray chunks of ice skittered off the top of the bucket - one pinging off Chopper’s chassis!

“We’ll be in Garel’s atmosphere right about. . .now!” Hera spoke, over Chopper indignant grumbles. “I’m gonna hail the medcentre while I set us down, so they can get ready for us.”

“Wow,” Kanan said, “time sure flies when you’re having fun.”

“Remind me to discuss your definition of fun some time, love.”

“Sure thing. Wait. . . medcentre? You mean you’re not really picking up a cake?” Kanan winked.

“Don’t worry. We’ll have cake when our purple friend here is better.” Hera said, before turning on her heels and rushing to the cockpit.

Kanan, half-smiling, pushed himself off the bed. Rolling his shoulders, he looked across at Chopper.

“Think you can help me get him in the stretcher?”

The droid grumbled in annoyance - ramming into one of the melting ice cubes, as if to prove some point.

“What? My spine is killing me!” Kanan grumbled back, rubbing the tender small of his back as he did so. “ When I’m done with this I’m getting a massage at the first parlor I find. I don’t care what Hera says.”

Chopper, holding back a retort for once, fidgeted in place.

“Just hold his legs down while I slide him head-first onto the stretcher, Chop. Hera will help me take him down the ramp take when we land.”

“Cooahh wup waa wop lih huh-huhrah beh naw keh waa!” _(Fine, but if he lives, you and Hera better not think about keeping him!)_ Chopper yelled at the top of his amplifier.

With Kanan’s ears still ringing, the two of them maneuvered their patient as carefully as they could, Chopper’s motors groaning from the unusual stresses they were being subjected to. Kanan could sympathise.

As the pair got the lasat out into the corridor Hera offered Kanan a small smile, in response to Chopper’s antics, though the open doorway to the cockpit. She’d lived with the cantankerous droid for most of her life, long enough to know the actual emotions behind his insults. Despite the aches and pains, the fears and doubts, Kanan smiled back - because, for the first time in a long while, Kanan Jarrus felt at peace with himself.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note:
> 
> The link to the translated code phrases Hera Syndulla and Zupa Craxxsk can be found on my Google Docs page, if you want the link to it please PM me. I'm not sure if I'm allowed to link to outside links.


End file.
